


Songs Like Mysteries

by learnthemusic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M, OT5 Friendship, Syco, harry wins x factor, i really don't know how this became so cheesy, liam also writes songs, louis is a songwriter, simon hires louis to write for harry, songwriter - Freeform, songwriter au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learnthemusic/pseuds/learnthemusic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry sucks at songwriting. Louis writes songs for him and ends up falling for him along the way. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>"So I was writing with a friend once," Harry says, pulling up his mic stand and making himself as comfortable as always on the stool on stage. "And I said to him, 'I can’t write if I don’t have anyone to write for.' He said that was stupid and that songs just came from life experience or some shit like that."</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>He pauses. "Well it turns out I do. Have someone to write for that is. And I just wanted to show him what happens when I do have a muse. And since I’m home and everyone’s here, I want to debut that song now. It’s a little rough and I can hardly play guitar, but here it goes."</i></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>OR: An AU where Louis is a songwriter hired by Syco to write for Harry Styles, reigning X Factor champion. Cue boys falling for each other, a debut album breaking tons of records and a proper power couple taking over the music industry.</p><p>On hiatus til finished. Aiming for a repost by summer's end!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I literally know nothing about Syco, X Factor and the songwriting industry. In fact, I'm faking a lot of this until I make it. 
> 
> I'm sorry in advance for how cheesy this might turn out. It was supposed to be a proper, serious fic about Louis as a songwriter and then I wrote that first scene. But I promise it'll stop being this cheesy in the next part. I can't, however, promise that Louis won't continue to have internal freakouts.

 

> _There's an element to songwriting that I can't explain, that comes from somewhere else. I can't explain that dividing line between nothing and something that happens within a song, where you have absolutely nothing, and then suddenly you have something. It's like the origin of the universe._
> 
> _\- Nick Cave_

 

"That sounds terrible."

“Oh, shut up, will you?”

“You are literally never going to win a Brit.”

“I don’t want a fucking Brit, you prat.”

“Seriously? What the fuck are you doing this for then?”

Louis throws his pencil at Zayn’s head. 

“Jesus, man! Almost got me eye there!”

“Pity.”

Zayn glares and throws the pencil back. “Fuck you, mate.”

Louis ducks the incoming missile and grabs one of the few still on his desk that haven’t ended up irretrievably lost in his open wardrobe or out the window of his cramped flat. “I didn’t ask your opinion,” he offers in explanation, setting his guitar aside and bending over to write down the chord he just played. “Why don’t you go annoy someone else?”

“Because I’m getting you back for all those years you did the same to me.” Zayn clasps his hands together then, bats his eyelashes and pitches up his voice when he says, “Oh, Zayn, won’t you listen to this song? Zayn, what’s so important about that stupid art history exam?”

Louis huffs and aims his pencil, keeps it steady as he glances down it with one eye open like he would a dart. “One more peep from you and you’re dead.”

That doesn’t stop Zayn from adding, hands dropped but voice still mocking him, “Help me, I’m poor!”

Louis lets the pencil fly. This time, Zayn does some kind of somersault thing to avoid it and the pencil hits the wall right where Zayn’s head used to be.

Shame, really.

“I wouldn’t be so poor if you would shut up when I’m trying to write,” Louis tells him, getting up from his spot on the floor and stretching his back. His spine cracks under the pressure from his hands and he grimaces. Maybe he should invest in one of this fancy ergonomic chairs that are good for —

Oh wait. He’s broke. 

And Zayn, hair seemingly unaffected by his tumble across the floor, is just looking up at him with a shit-eating grin, like he’s any kind of help whatsoever. “You’re the one who called _me_ , Lou, remember?”

Louis glares for what feels like the hundredth time since Zayn got here just an hour ago. “Fancy that.”

“I’m your muse or something, is what you called it.”

“Bugger off.”

“I always knew you were in love with me,” Zayn says, trying to keep his inflection from wavering but failing because he’s still got that stupid smile on his face. Too hard to form words when he’s grinning that big, Louis figures. 

He would punch Zayn if he had any idea how. 

Deadpan, “I actually couldn’t hate you more than I do right this moment,” Louis retrieves his pencil — it’s his lucky one, too, and the wall broke its tip, which isn’t good because Louis needs every bit of luck he can get right now — from the floor and frowns. “Look what you’ve caused me to do.”

Zayn sits up straight then, back against the trunk that Louis uses as a coffee table. “You needed a new one anyway.”

“I did not!” Louis shrieks indignantly. He pouts down at the pencil in his hand, rubs it against his cheek. “Don’t listen to that monster, pencil.”

“You are a freak. Mate, it’s like five years old and about as a long as your middle finger.”

“It’s my favorite!”

Louis watches through narrowed eyes as Zayn gets up and approaches him with his hands raised. “Louis—“

“Don’t say it!”  


“It’s just a pencil.”

_& && _

In hindsight, maybe Louis overreacted. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed Zayn onto the floor and stomped none too lightly on his best mate’s favorite shoe. (Zayn’s lucky, really, that Louis was too gentle to cause much damage.)

But Louis couldn’t help feeling attacked when Zayn tried to wrestle the five-centimeter long, rainbow pencil with the worn down eraser out of his hands. And when the weathered wood of it cracked straight down the middle, from top to bottom, it wasn’t completely Louis’ fault that he burst into tears and reacted like any other 23-year-old would in a moment of panic.

It’s just that it was more than _just_ a pencil to Louis. It was the one he’d used when he wrote the first song he ever sold. It was also the one he’d used when he wrote the second and third ones he sold to the same band, which never really made it big outside of Scotland. And even though his attempts at selling a fourth tune to any label in London have failed recently, he’d still held onto the hope that _that_ pencil would write it for him.

Now he’s back at square one, relying on a slowly diminishing income from the royalties of three songs he wrote two years ago — and pencil-less. 

_& && _

Zayn brings him a whole pack of rainbow pencils the next day as a peace offering. Louis only lets him into his flat because he feels embarrassed for kicking Zayn out while in actual tears. And also because Zayn really is his muse and Louis is feeling particularly inspired for someone who just lost his favorite writing utensil.

“You could feed me, you know.” Zayn tries to sound casual from his place on the sofa, which is the only piece of furniture in Louis’ apartment that is worth any kind of money. With his first paycheck, Louis splurged on the couch because he’d been tired of decorating his living room with multicolored bean bags throughout all of uni. Now it’s been two years and Louis barely uses it, but at least it’s nice to sleep on when he’s too knackered to get to the mattress he took from his mum’s house when he moved out. 

And it’s somewhere for Zayn to sit and look pretty while Louis _tries_ to write that next hit. 

“Muses don’t eat, Zayn,” Louis answers from his desk, which he’s chosen to sit on today, guitar perched across his thigh and brand new pencil drumming impatiently against his notebook.

“Being a muse is hard work.”

“How does, ‘Or else we’ll play all the same old games and we wait for the end to change,’ sound?”

“Do I get food if I answer you?”

Louis looks up at that, eyebrows raised. “Who are you and what have you done with Zayn Malik?”

That just makes Zayn furrow his brow. “The fuck you on about?”

“You’re sounding like Niall.”

Zayn shrugs and turns back to his laptop, on which he’s designing some new book cover for that graphics company he works for. Louis doesn’t really know. Zayn just gets a lot of work done here, now that Louis thinks about it. Maybe he’s Zayn’s muse too.

Zayn interrupts his thoughts with, “I’m not answering until you promise to feed me.”

Groaning, Louis drops his pencil and slams his palm down on the desk. “Fine!” 

_& &&_

Two weeks and an entire song later — one that’s actually good and one that Louis pitched to various publishers and was told he’d hear back from at least one of them in the next few days — Louis is sitting between Zayn and Niall at the bar around the corner from Niall’s flat and he feels like he’s on cloud nine. Or 17. Or 1000, for all he’s had to drink.

Because, for once, there’s actually a chance Louis might get picked up on something he’s written. And by someone who’s not all the way in bloody Scotland, sucking it up so bad that Louis’ income is dwindling by the hour.

“To music!” Niall toasts all too cheesily, both words slurred together like only he could make them. Zayn looks like he wants to just melt into a puddle right there for being around such an embarrassing human, but Louis finds it kind of funny.

He might actually snort his last sip out of his nose but who’s looking.

He’s also five pints in and absolutely carefree for the first time in weeks, so he ignores Zayn and clinks his glass against Niall’s loudly. “To music!” He chugs back the first half of the beer, as is his and Niall’s custom, and he doesn’t really remember much after that. 

_& &&_

When he gets the call, Louis is hanging upside down from his bed, trying to think of the best word to rhyme with “unsure.” He’s gotten in a groove lately, writing about unrequited love because it’s the kind of subject matter that never really gets old, and he’s stuck on this one line for a song that he could imagine some new pop artist singing.

He’s repeating, “Now I’m back at your door and you’re looking at me unsure,” as the blood rushes to his head and starts to spot his vision. That’s when his mobile goes off right in his ear at full volume and he shrieks, tumbling to the floor and covering his ear. 

He’s lucky he didn’t break his neck but it almost feels like his ear is bleeding. Which is shit luck, really, because he kind of needs to be able to hear in his line of business. His phone hasn’t stopped blaring at him and he reaches for it blindly, the rush of blood away from his head making him dizzy and his right ear buzzing steadily. 

“‘lo?” he mumbles — or screams, he’s not quite sure.

The voice on the other end hesitates. “Um. Mr. Tomlinson?”

Louis can’t place the woman’s voice. “May I help you?” he asks, leaning his forehead against the mattress and squeezing his eyes shut. There’s a lot going on in his brain right now and it’s kind of hard to focus on the call. 

“Yes, this is Jenna Lynn from Syco.” 

Which of course gets Louis’ attention and he sits up so fast that his vision blurs again. But whatever. Because a label is actually calling him. _Him_. 

“If you’re free at two this afternoon, could you come by the office? I can email you directions.”

It takes everything in Louis’ being not to scream at the woman that he’ll sign right now, no need to wait. But he takes the high road, miraculously, and calmly says, “I’ll be there.”

“Wonderful. See you then.”

As soon as the line clicks off, Louis bangs his head against the mattress repeatedly and cries.

Sensible as always.

_& &&_

Zayn has to pry Louis off the couch at noon. Because, as ecstatic as he’d been just a couple of hours earlier, he’s right terrified now. 

“What if they actually hate it?”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m serious, Zayn!” Louis feels more tears spring to his eyes and he paws at them angrily. “What if they want to tear it apart?”

“Jesus Christ, you’re a mess.”

“This has to be a prank. Can we Google that phone number?”

“It was blocked.”

“Even more reason to —”

Zayn slaps him then. Honest to God, sting across the cheek and all. He’s surprised himself, if the raised eyebrows and widened eyes are anything to go by, but Louis can’t really do more than gape at him. His own eyes have dried up from the shock, if that’s possible.

“Lou — Louis — Shit, oh my —” Zayn stammers, getting to his knees and stroking a thumb across Louis’ cheek, which Louis can feel flushing with the hurt. “Are you all right?”

That’s exactly when it clicks and Louis nods, shoving Zayn’s hands away from him. “I’m going to have a proper shower now, I think.”

“Louis, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Zayn. Really.” He pats Zayn on the shoulder and stands up, knees wobbling a little from how long he’d been curled up on the couch in the fetal position. 

“Are you sure? You can hit me back if you want.” Zayn’s still crouched and he looks so sincere that Louis would kiss him if they were anything like _that_. But they decided that wasn’t for them years ago. Besides, Zayn has Perrie now and he left that whole gay experimentation thing behind in uni. 

“You’re quite honestly the best mate I’ve ever had, Zayn,” Louis says instead, ruffling Zayn’s stiff hair and smirking when he puffs out his bottom lip in annoyance. 

“How could you possibly come to realize that now?”

“You literally slapped sense into me.”

Zayn just groans and Louis, meltdown forgotten, skips across his tiny flat, shedding clothes as he goes. 

_ &&& _

Louis brings his notebook with him to the Syco office because, among other things, Zayn’s slap across the face also put a jumble of lyrics in his head that he just has to write down, in all their nonsensical glory, lest he forget them.

And he’s been reaching for these words for so long that now is hardly a good time to just forget.

Armed with two rainbow pencils and a backup, just in case, he scribbles furiously. Words like _stupid_ and simple rhymes like _there/everywhere_ and even phrases like _I slept on your doorstep_. Chord progressions come to mind and he fingers them on his pencil, hears them in his head before writing them down in some semblance of an order. If studying music at uni did anything for him, it was give him the ability to memorize every single note known to man.

He’s focusing intently with his eyes squeezed shut when he hears his name.

“Mr. Tomlinson?” calls a woman in attire that’s more business casual than Louis expected. It makes him feel a lot better about his choice to forego his nice trousers in spite of Zayn’s insistence.

He stands up, stuffs his pencils into the pocket of his jeans and approaches the front of the room. “That’s me,” he says, smiling and tucking his notebook under his arm. 

She smiles back and shakes his hand. “I’m Jenna Lynn. I spoke to you earlier. I must say, from the way you answered the phone, I thought we would be dealing with a proper homeless lad.”

Laughing, “Not just yet anyway,” he squeezes both his hands around his notebook and reminds himself that these are just people he’s dealing with, not Simon Cowell’s minions. Though they very well might be.

Which does nothing to calm him, actually, especially when she continues with, “Oh, Louis, once you’re out of here, you’ll see just how unlikely that is.”

She says it so serenely that Louis wonders if she even notices the magnitude of what she just said. And if she did, then she must be in a high place to make such a bold statement and now Louis is hyperventilating but he can’t let it show because he might make a bad impression and oh _God_ —

“Mr. Tomlinson?” she prods. Louis can feel just how pale he’s become, how the blood has drained from his face and pulled away from his fingertips, leaving him shaky and almost completely useless. 

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, tries to start sentences, but he ends up flubbing everything and gasping like a fish out of water. All Jenna does is offer him a smile and lead him down the hall with a hand on his arm.

Great. Maybe he should have let Zayn come with him.

  _& && _

It doesn’t get any better when he finds himself sat in front of a long oak table with a contract slapped under his nose by none other than Simon Cowell himself. He tries to focus on the tiny print but all he can think about is how Zayn had a thing for Simon’s v-necks when they first met and it was kind of unnerving.

But here Louis is, sitting across from Simon in the flesh, and he has no choice but to think the v-necks actually aren’t half bad. 

“Louis, are you still with me?” Simon prompts, tapping a pen against his goblet — yes, a _goblet_ — of water. 

Louis gulps and glances up. “I’m sorry?”

Simon sighs and folds his hands along the edge of the table. “I want you to write for us. And not all of us, really. But for Harry Styles in particular. I think what you sent us is the direction he wants to go. How does that sound to you?”

“I — uh — well, I mean.” He’s stuttering and that’s something he hasn’t done since he was twelve and had to go to speech therapy for just so kids would stop bullying him. He can hardly remember what the therapist told him then, about taking deep breaths and thinking clearly about his words instead of trying to send them all out in a single rush. 

But with Simon staring at him expectantly and Jenna standing in the corner of the room giggling to herself — she’s going to use Louis’ loss of motor skills earlier against him for the rest of his life, he can feel it — he can’t really control his brain to mouth filter and he ends up blurting, “Who the hell is Harry Styles?”

Jenna snorts at that and Louis doesn’t hold back a glare in her direction. She holds up her hands in mock surrender then points his attention back to Simon, who’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“Are you taking the piss, Tomlinson?”

“Uh, no. Sir,” he adds an afterthought. It is Simon Cowell after all. 

“Jenna, please bring me the laptop so I can enlighten this blubbering idiot, would you?”

_ &&& _

“You didn’t.”

“Yes, actually.”

“Jesus, Louis, you can’t just go to Syco and not know anything about the X Factor.”

“Well, I did, Zayn, so just get over it, will you? There’s a lad.”

Zayn pelts Louis with a throw pillow, a luxury Zayn can actually afford in his own flat. “Simon called you a blubbering idiot?”

Louis wrinkles his nose at that before taking a drag off the joint Zayn rolled him. “That he did.”

“But he showed you, right?”

He inhales deeply, holds the smoke in for a few seconds, then breathes out steadily. If there’s one thing he likes about smoking it’s how the mess in his head from earlier in the day has dulled to almost nothing. And while the words he wanted aren’t right there at his fingertips like they had been, he’s not that afraid he won’t find them again later. 

“Yes, babe, he showed me Harry Styles in all his Xtra Factor glory,” Louis assures as he passes the joint.

Zayn snatches it greedily and tips his head back. “So you’re writing for a hipster who was just on a bloody talent show?”

Louis snorts at the irony of it all. “I guess I am, mate. Cheers, yeah?”

“Only if I get to meet him.”

He scowls, chucks Zayn’s throw pillow right back with all the force he can muster. He’ll be able to afford one himself soon enough, anyway. Zayn oofs and Louis smirks. “Needy muse, you are.”

“Well, you’ll have Harry to be your muse now, won’t you?”

Louis kicks at him because, really, how could a 20-year-old with gangly limbs who wears brightly colored, patterned head scarves, for Christ’s sake, have anything on Zayn? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote all of this without meaning to and was gonna just write everything at once. But then I thought I should probably stop writing because it was four in the morning and I wanted to post something before I went to bed. But this should only be four parts at the max, so I hope to have the next chapter soon. 
> 
> Posting a WIP is new for me so I hope it's not too bad!
> 
> And, seriously, if anyone wants to help me out with brit-picking/betaing, I would take you up on that so fast.


	2. Chapter 2

And, oh, how wrong he was, Louis finds out pretty quickly.

Because for all his gangly limbs and hideous headscarves, Harry Styles is quite the catch. The smile he brings into the studio on Louis’ first day is blinding. And when he catches sight of the pack of rainbow pencils Louis has strewn across the floor where he’s sitting, Harry doesn’t laugh at him. He just picks one up, says, “Nice pencils,” and plops onto the ground in front of Louis.

Louis can only say, “Thanks,” before Harry’s pulling a small notepad out of his pocket. He flips to a blank page and starts writing immediately. Which is confusing, because they’ve exchanged three words and Louis might not know much about writing for a solo artist, but he figured he’d at least get to know what that person was like before he started penning lyrics. He’s about to protest but then Harry turns his stupidly green eyes on Louis and hands the notepad to him. 

“Hi, I’m Harry and I wanted to start writing write (haha get it because we’re WRITING) away because that’s what you’re here for,” Louis reads, eyebrows furrowed. “But mostly I just meant writing notes to each other until we can talk about how this is going to work.”

After a pause, Louis starts, “We could just —” 

But Harry shakes his head vehemently, eyes wide and curls bouncing on the top of his head, and points at the pencil behind Louis’ ear. 

“Seriously?”

Harry nods just as emphatically and Louis sighs. Jesus, he looks like a cartoon. When he puts his pencil against the paper, he ignores the smirk Harry’s giving him and writes as quickly as he can. 

“I’m Louis and I think we shouldn’t waste our writing words on small talk when we can just vocalize this entire conversation.”

To which Harry responds, “Just want to get a handle on reading your penmanship, if I’m being honest.”

Louis huffs but writes back, “You’re insane, aren’t you? That’s why they didn’t do anything but show me videos of your performances on the X Factor, right?”

Harry takes the notepad from Louis, glances at the page and snorts so hard Louis thinks he might have hurt his throat. But if the low chuckle and the happy eyes that follow are anything to go by, he probably doesn’t have anything to worry about. Good, because he doesn't need Simon reprimanding him for ruining this lad’s voice. 

Harry looks up just in time to catch Louis staring a little too openly at Harry’s face. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, so he ducks his head and plays with the worn laces of his shoes, but not without noticing Harry laugh a little bit more like he’s making fun of Louis. 

“You might be correct. But I’m still cute, right?” Louis reads when Harry slips the notepad into Louis’ lap while he’s still staring at the ground. He has to restrain himself from groaning and turning a dark shade of red, but he already feels a flush climbing up his neck and his skin getting clammy and, just, so much for that. 

Pencil in hand and gaze still turned decidedly downward, Louis scribbles, “Maybe…we should keep this professional.” He shoves the notepad blindly at Harry, who laughs and touches the back of Louis’ hand when he takes it from him. 

Louis is about to respond to Harry’s, “Who said anything about professionalism? ;)” when the door of the studio bangs open and Louis is startled enough to almost break his pencil in half. Which makes Harry laugh some more, like Louis needs to give him more reasons to make fun of him.

Julian and Carl, two of the producers Louis met last week when he visited Simon, and two others stare at the two of them from the doorway with raised eyebrows. 

“Why are you on the floor?” Julian asks. “There are tables and couches over here, you know.”

Harry jumps to his feet and tries to disarm the lot with a smile but Louis can see from where he’s sitting that there’s a red tint to his cheeks. So Louis stands next to Harry, nudges him as discreetly as he can with the toe of his shoe, and says, “I like floors.”

That startles a guffaw from Harry, who looks at Louis with another wide smile. When he composes himself, he turns back to the crew that’s observing them like they’re two lab rats and says, voice serious, “Yeah, you got me a right freak for a writer, I think.”

All Louis can do is shrug in response as Carl nods and says slowly, “Right then. Let’s get started, shall we?” 

Harry glances at Louis again, chuckles some more, and, Louis figures, at least the guy with the starfish-adorned headscarf isn’t laughing _at_ him this time.

&&&

Later, Louis is curled up on one of the studio couches, his notebook painfully empty and the eraser of his beloved pencil almost chewed up to the point of uselessness. When he notices, he stares down at it forlornly and pouts.

The eraser is actually a perfect representation of what the first day in the studio with Harry has been like. Fruitless. Frustrating. F —

Shit, he can’t even alliterate anymore. He’s sitting here, losing brain power with every passing second, and Harry’s acting like he has all the time in the world to write music for an album he’s supposed to be releasing in three months.

It’s been five hours since they got here this morning. Five hours and all they’ve managed to write down were the stupid notes they traded at Harry’s insistence. They should have pages filled with words by now. Maybe not ones that make sense together yet, maybe not ones that will combine to make the next number one hit. But _something._

Louis doesn’t get it. And he doesn’t get why Harry is convinced that he has to have a bloody rhyming dictionary to write a song. Has he never listened to music before? Or tried writing his own songs when he was younger? 

He’s wanted to be a singer for _how_ long now?

“Harold!” Louis snaps when’s fed up with watching Harry flip through a thesaurus. He takes a little bit of pleasure in the way Harry’s head thuds against the wall when he looks up at Louis from his seat on the floor across the room. 

“Owww,” Harry whines, massaging his scalp and glaring at Louis. “It’s _Harry_.”

“I don’t care. I just want you to focus.”

“I _am_ focussing.”

“Well you have nothing to show for it.” Louis flaps his notebook at Harry, making sure the blankness on his pages is just as apparent to him as it is to Louis. It actually pains him a little bit. 

“You keep shooting me down, though.”

“Because it’s been, like, a thousand hours and you’re still trying to be Dr. Seuss or something.” The look of confusion that takes over Harry’s face has Louis groaning and throwing his hands up in the air. “God, you’re hopeless!”

“I just don’t understand.” Harry shuts the thesaurus and sets it aside. Finally. “What has Green Eggs and Ham got to do with this?”

“You’re trying to rhyme everything that comes out of your mouth.”

“Well, yeah. It’s a song, right?”

“Oh my god, you’re actually an idiot.” Louis’ not sure when he made it to the door of the studio but he goes back to the couch, drops his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. The pay here might be great and it might finally get him out of the flat he’s had since uni, but if it’s at the cost of his work suffering because he’s supposed to collaborate with an airhead of a _contest winner_ , he’s not sure it’s worth it.

“You say a lot of mean things.”

Louis tilts his head up at that, throws Harry a glare even though Harry’s frowning and his eyes are suspiciously glossy in this light. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“No…” Harry drops his gaze to his lap and picks at something on his trousers. 

Exasperated — and, right, maybe Louis should tone down the huffing, but _honestly_ — Louis grabs one of the dull pencils littered at his feet and chucks it at Harry’s hand. “I meant about the rhyming thing.”

Harry takes the pencil in his hand and looks back up. “What?”

“Just — Christ, why are you even using a thesaurus?”

“Oh. Well, I don’t know, it has rhyming words in it.”

“That’s your problem.” Louis joins Harry on the floor but not without kicking the offending book to the other side of the room. “Trust me, you don’t want that.”

“But how are we going to finish that line?”

“You don’t have to rhyme every phrase, Harold. Please listen to what I’m saying.”

“But it’s just —” Harry uses the pencil Louis threw at him to point wildly at the words on his notepad. “This line, it says, ‘He knows about you in every way.’ How are you supposed to move on from that if you don’t have, like, an anchor at the end of the next sentence?”

Louis blinks at Harry. “What?”

Harry groans and pulls his legs underneath him pretzel-style. “If we put a rhyme at the end of the next phrase, then we have something like an outline to write to. Right?”

“No.”

“Then how do you move on?”

Christ. Louis didn’t sign up to teach Harry Styles how to write a song. “I don’t know,” he finally answers. Helpful, he’s sure. But he has no idea how else to explain the concept. It’s always made sense to him. “Just write whatever comes out of your mind next.”

“The only thing I can think of is a list of words that rhyme with ‘way’ and you’ve already said that’s wrong.”

“That’s because it is!”

Julian chooses that moment to poke his head in the door, no warning whatsoever. Louis startles and straightens his back. They probably make quite the sight, what with the entire room in disarray and every possible seat vacated while they sit on the carpet against the far wall.

“Hello,” Harry greets, waving a hand so animatedly that Louis wonders what kind of energy reserve he could possibly be running on right now. They haven’t even had lunch and it’s three in the afternoon. Louis’ burnt out just from arguing.

Nodding, Julian asks, “Any progress?” and closes the door behind him. 

“Not exactly,” Louis interjects before Harry can boast about the single line he came up with today. Louis can see him deflate a little in the peripherals of his vision but he ignores it because, honestly, what good does the first line of 16 songs they have to come up with do them? “Harold has been stuck on one line since you lot left us.”

“One line? You’ve had five hours and you’ve come up with one line?”

Harry sighs, “Yes,” and leans against the wall, lip puffed out like a petulant child. “I don’t get it.”

“He wants to rhyme everything.”

“It just makes sense that way!”

“But it’s not right! You don’t talk in rhymes, do you?”

He ducks his head but Louis can see the flush that quickly creeps up his neck. “I guess not.”

“He’s right,” Julian says. “Not everything has to have one of those ABAB rhyme schemes.”

“This isn’t Shakespeare,” Louis adds.

“It has to be natural.”

“But aren’t songs supposed to be, like…poems set to music?”

Just from sneaking a glance at Julian, Louis can tell he wants to strangle Harry. The way he clenches his jaw and folds his arms tightly across his chest are a dead giveaway. 

And he hasn’t even been in here that long. Louis’ been trying to snap Harry out of it for hours. He’s about to rip up his contract or something. Forget the talent Harry showed on X Factor — he’ll probably end up just like that Scottish band and Louis will be out of income _again_.

Louis is stuck in his head so long, fuming at the inevitability of Harry’s demise, that he almost doesn’t hear Harry prompt him with a shy, “Is that wrong?” His voice is so shaky, so unsure, like he’s never been told he wasn’t right before. 

Then Louis gets it. Harry doesn’t understand because he really doesn’t have a muse and, as much as Louis hates to admit it, you can’t really write anything if you’re not inspired. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a person, clearly. Songs have been written about forests and rivers and take-away, for Christ’s sake. It just needs to mean something.

Like a poem, then.

“Not exactly.” Louis looks around the room for a guitar, spots it near Julian and crosses over to get it. “You sang ‘Torn,’ right?”

Harry stares at him, almost like he’s amazed Louis knows. He did do his research, after all, even if it was Zayn who kind of forced him into it. “Yes.”

“That song isn’t completely full of rhymes, right?”

“Well, I mean, the whole first verse is.”

“But the chorus isn’t.” Wracking his brain for the chords, Louis picks absently at the strings until he remembers the key of the song. It was one he played a lot when he first started learning guitar, so it takes him a few moments. Once he finds the pitches, though, it’s almost like he’d never stopped playing it. And then he sings the chorus for Harry, a little hesitant because he’s heard Harry riff some notes today and he sounds amazing, a complete contrast to the high-pitched squeaking Louis always manages to make. 

When he’s finished, he places the guitar on the couch, ducks his head under Harry’s wide-eyed stare and shuffles back to his spot on the floor. 

Harry’s silent for what feels like ten seconds too long — Louis is about to crawl out of his skin because of it — but then he seeks out Louis’ gaze and a smile takes over his entire face. “You’re brilliant.”

Louis is _not_ blushing, thank you very much. “Fuck off.”

“I’m serious,” Harry laughs. “That was great.”

“It was, like, 30 words.”

“Boys, let’s focus, shall we?” 

Harry jumps like he’d forgotten Julian was in the room. “I think I understand.”

“Why don’t you come up with a word map or something. Focus on a theme. Let’s go with pining — what you have sounds a lot like pining.”

Louis laughs because it’s a better alternative to obsessing over the way Harry looked at him. Which was no particular way, after all. He’s just been in here for so long, and without any form of sustenance, that he’s starting to become delusional or something.

Of course Harry doesn’t get what’s so funny but that’s kind of the point.

When Julian leaves them, Louis goes back to his perch on the couch to find his notebook. It’s still depressingly blank and the words that had been running through his head in the days running up to this one are no longer there.

“Louis?” 

Louis looks up at Harry just as he’s taking the discarded rainbow pencil and placing the end of it in his mouth. He answers, “Yes?” and ignores the suspicious tightening in his chest.

“What’s something that rhymes with pining? Lining?”

It’s gonna be a long three months.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not until late Thursday — and by late, Louis means eight p.m. on a week night, 10 hours after he first arrived at the studio — that Harry finally understands.

Louis’ tried so hard to coax Harry into writing at least one line. Something that Louis can piggyback off and turn into a melody. But all he’s gotten today are things like “seeing you from afar” and “get out of that chair.” Even got a “when I look into your eyes” as if it’s not one of the most overused phrases in the world.

He’s going to call it a night because, honestly, being around Harry has started to sap him of his own creativity and he’s tired of going home to write into the wee hours of the morning because their in-studio endeavors are so fruitless. Like, he can feel the bags under his eyes becoming a permanent thing and it’s absolutely driving him insane. But if he doesn’t leave this place now, it’s likely he won’t get any sleep tonight at all.

“I don’t think we’re —”

“Do you remember that song you showed me the other day?” Harry lifts his head up from the armrest, where he’s been lying at an angle with his feet propped on the wall behind the couch for at least an hour. The pen he’s been trying to balance on his upper lip for almost as long tumbles to the floor.

Louis has no idea what he’s talking about. The notebook he carries around is full of so many songs that Louis might have shown him the one he wrote while high on Zayn’s couch after Simon hired him. And at this point, Monday seems like 10 years ago. But he nods anyway.

Harry’s staring at him from the other end of the couch — and Louis’ not quite sure how they got this close but it probably has to do with the fact that the only other piece of furniture in the room was the table that’s littered with eraser and pencil shavings — smiles and says, “How about this line? _He’s memorized every part of your face, inside and out, head to toe_.”

Shocked, Louis sits up, flips through the notebook he let fall to the ground half an hour ago, and finds the page from the first day, where he has scribbled in tiny letters, _he knows about you in every way_.

“Harold,” he gasps, widening his eyes and flapping his notepad at him in a way that’s become oddly familiar this week. “You finally got it.

Harry has enough sense to look a bit embarrassed at that. There’s even a flush that starts to creep down his neck, still visible where his t-shirt droops to just over a pair of tattoos Harry has on his chest. But that’s enough of looking at Harry — not that Louis was _looking_ but Harry’s tattoos are kind of distracting, especially when he pushes up the sleeves of a jumper to his elbows reveals even more ink — 

Louis kicks Harry off the couch, he plops to the floor with a “heyyyy” and then Louis vaults across the room to his guitar case. Very smooth.

“We have to do this _now_.”

And they do. They write a song with cheesy lyrics like “does he know you can move it like that?” and “I catch your eye when you turn away.” But it’s a _song_ and Harry’s voice melts into the gaps between all of Louis’ chords and, just, it _works_.

_& &&_

“Do you need a ride home?” Harry asks from the doorway on Friday, where he’s wrapping a scarf around his neck. They wrote two songs today, and even though they’re not sure they’ll make it on the album, it’s something. 

Louis finishes doing the latches on his guitar case and looks up at Harry with narrowed eyes. He’s not sure when during the last week they became friendly enough for Harry to want to drive him places in the sensible Range Rover he bought with his X Factor money.

But he’d be a fool to turn him down. It’s already nine and he doesn't really fancy trekking to the tube in the snow or over-paying for a cab. 

Plus, it’s not like Harry is going to kill him.

“How long have you had a license?” he asks anyway, pulling the case onto his back where the straps dig snuggly into his shoulders.

Harry’s mouth rises on just one side and, wow, Louis didn’t know smirks could be so attractive.

Anyway.

“Answer me, Styles.”

“I don’t know.” He stubs the toe of his boot into the doorjamb and becomes very interested in the carpet. “A year, maybe.”

Louis gasps, “A year?” and automatically wishes he could take it back when he sees the line of Harry’s shoulders tense through his coat. “I mean, that’s just — You’re just, you know, like…20, so I figured you’d have been driving for ages by now.”

“Mum didn’t let me,” Harry mumbles.

Oh, god, Louis’ gone and actually embarrassed him. Of all the jokes he’s made since meeting the lad, _this_ is the one that hits home? He wasn’t even really joking, come to think of it, but he has to come up with a way to make up for it because he really doesn’t want to waste the little money he has before his next paycheck comes in.  

He settles on, “Well, as long as you don’t kill me, that doesn’t matter,” and jostles Harry’s shoulder as he brushes past him into the hallway. 

_& &&_

Maybe there’s something about writing three songs within 24 hours that brings you closer to people. Whatever it is, Louis finds it hard to deny that he likes it. He likes that Harry spends all weekend texting him about whatever comes to his mind. Sometimes, it’s really bad jokes or questions about Louis that Louis doesn’t always answer. Other times, it’s observations about his newly established life in London or prodding for Louis to open up to him — just not in as many words.

And for as much as Louis tries to put himself above becoming friends with Harry, he’s been pretty shit at it so far. He’s indulged almost everything Harry sends his way. It would pain him to see Harry climb up his best friends list on snapchat so quickly if it weren’t for how he finds himself constantly laughing at the stories he constructs. Like this one about squirrel he watches from a bench at a park one day, the squirrel snatching as many nuts as he can find and building them into a tower only to knock it over when he tries to eat one from the top.

Louis goes to sleep on Saturday night knowing more about Harry’s affinity for boots than he’d ever cared to know. He finds he doesn’t really mind, especially since it means he’s able to properly defend the colorful array of Vans currently piled up in a corner of his closet. Or, actually, now that he thinks about it, in a mound near the window in his room.

But on Sunday, Louis wakes up to a text that arrived at four in the morning that says “you don’t have to worry, i’ll be coming back for you, lately i’ve been going crazy, so i’m coming back for you.” It confuses the shit out of him because he hadn’t realized they’d gotten _that_ close. It puts his heart in a frenzy and the way his fingers slip along the screen of his phone is embarrassing but he can’t get a “wut???” out fast enough.

He’s breathing heavily into his blanket when his phone buzzes. He scrambles to find it in the mess of his bed coverings and once he gets his clammy hands on it, it slips to the floor and takes a weird bounce a foot away from his bed. 

On his knees, he pulls the retrieved phone up close to his face because he can’t read that well without his glasses. 

**_styles h  
_** _13:04  
_ _lyrics!!_  

Louis feels all the blood drain from his face because, really, why was he even so worked about it in the first place? 

**_me  
_** _13:07  
_ _go on then. where the rest?_  

 **_styles h  
_** _13:07  
_ _that’s all i got_  

 **_me  
_** _13:08  
_ _get bac to me when u have more_  

 **_styles h  
_** _13:08  
_ _!!!_  

Louis shuts off his phone and takes a bath for an hour. When he gets out, he pulls up his guitar and starts strumming the notes to the first song he ever wrote. Nobody but him has to know it was about his dog running away.

Especially not Harry.

_& &&_

It turns out that Harry was onto something with the lyrics he texted. He’d already fleshed out the first verse and the chorus when Louis sees him on Monday, and he pounces on him — Louis wishes he could say that figuratively but he has the bruise on his arm to prove it — to show off his writing prowess. 

Louis likes it. He’s liked all the ideas Harry’s come up with since they wrote that first song. 

But he won’t tell him that.

“You’re getting there, young Harold,” Louis says, feigning sageness. He brushes off the dust from his coat from where he collided with the wall and hangs it carefully on the rack mounted next to the door. 

“You think it’s worth trying?” Harry looks at Louis like if Louis said no, he’d understand. Really, what has he gotten himself into? He doesn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s creative spirit but his own.

“Of course it’s worth it.” He leads Harry to the corner table and pulls himself up onto the stool. “A song is a song, it doesn’t matter how simple. If it means something to you, that’s all that counts.” 

The smile Harry gives him, the way he says, “Yeah, that makes sense,” the glint in his eyes as he looks at the scribbles in his notepad — Louis needs some of that energy for himself, if he’s being honest.

So they sit together all morning, both writing furiously, and when Julian comes to check on them after lunch, they have so much to talk about that they can’t write for the rest of the day. 

_& &&_

Harry leaves for the X Factor tour a week later. It’s kind of awkward when he says goodbye because Harry goes in to hug him while Louis puts up a fist for a bump and they both just kind of laugh, pat each other on the back and call it a night. 

The interaction weighs on Louis for reasons he doesn’t care to know. But he lets it go when, the next morning, Harry texts him a picture of his cramped bunk on the tour bus with the caption “at least i’m done growing.”

What an idiot.

_& &&_

“Louis?”

Louis snaps his head up so fast that he kind of forgets there’s a wall behind him and he lets out a pained yelp. His eyes water quickly and Simon’s image wavers in front of him. He can’t even count the times he’s embarrassed himself in front of this man already and he’s only been working for him for a month.

“Sir?” he manages to squeak out, rubbing his scalp as surreptitiously as he can while stumbling up to his feet.

“Are you all right?” Simon’s eyebrows have stitched together into one giant caterpillar taking over his face. 

Louis probably needs to sit back down. “I’m fine,” he says instead.

“Right. Well, I have some news for you.” Simon takes a seat at the table littered with scraps from Louis’ notepad. “We’ve decided to expedite Harry’s album. The tour’s starting now and we need to use the noise he generates in the next few weeks to drum up excitement for his debut. Obviously, we’ve still got a long way to go and, judging from the state of things…” He points at the mess in front of him and the guitar Louis abandoned on the couch an hour ago. Louis’ finally stopped his eyes watering from the impact but now they’re prickling for a new set of reasons. “We decided we needed some extra help. So we’ve contracted Liam Payne to write with both you and Harry. Liam will come in tomorrow.”

Simon looks at Louis expectantly but there’s really nothing Louis can say. He knows the progress they’ve made isn’t near where they need to be, but they were getting there. Eight songs is half what Simon requested. Their deadline is still a month and a half away. 

But he doesn’t voice any of that. He just nods at Simon, says, “I understand,” and grabs his guitar. 

“Liam’s just as new in this industry as you are, Louis. You should get on well.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” 

If Louis sounds sarcastic, Simon says nothing about it. He leaves with a, “Good lad,” and Louis tries very hard not to hate someone he has yet to meet.

_& &&_

“I hate him,” Louis tells Niall, who’s pretending to pay attention to him but is really more focussed on the replay of Saturday’s match that they’re showing on Sky. Louis didn’t come over to be ignored but it’s better than sitting in his flat moping about the whole Liam thing.

It’s just that Liam came in this morning with a full Yamaha keyboard in one hand and he didn’t even look like it was weighing him down at all. Add to that the two half-finished songs he brought in and Louis can’t stand him or his ridiculous flannel shirt.  

“I mean, who carries a fucking keyboard into the studio?” He takes a long pull of his beer and swishes it around his mouth a little bit. “They have those things there, you know. No need to show off your caveman abilities on your first day at work.”

“This Liam guy hot?” 

Louis chokes. “Are you _joking_?”

Niall laughs and turns off the telly. “’s just a co-worker, Lou. You can flirt if you want.”

“I don’t like him!”

“’cause you’re holdin’ out for Harry?” The smirk that takes over Niall’s face makes Louis wish he’d just waited for Zayn to get out of work. 

“Harry is a child and Liam is a burly lumberjack, flannel and all,” he explains, setting his beer down and standing up. “I am not attracted to either of them and I wish I had never told you anything.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have songs to write and a guitar to string.” Louis almost leaves without saying goodbye — and he should for all the attention Niall paid him — but he’s a better man that that and he doubles back to drop a wet kiss on Niall’s cheek and ruffle his highlighted hair. “Thanks for the beer, mate.”

_& &&_

Liam brings him a large tea the next morning and it’s not fixed the way he likes it, but it’s a gesture. A nice one, even. Louis can’t even begrudge him the atrocious plaid he’s donned on this day.

He looks nervous when he passes the cup to Louis, like he’s about to start in on an apology that’s really not necessary. But all he says is, “I didn’t know how you took it, so I brought extra sugar and stuff.” 

Louis can only find it within himself to smile as he grabs a few sugar packets from the bag Liam extends to him. “Thanks. I didn’t get the chance to make any this morning.”

Liam looks pleased, the bashfulness quickly replaced by a grin the width of his cheeks. It looks good on him. Not the way Harry’s does but —

Anyway. Maybe Louis was quick to jump to conclusions. 

It turns out that working with Liam is a lot better than he expected it to be. He thought it would take them as long to mesh as it did him and Harry. That they’d waste a few precious days coming up with lines that could never work in conjunction.

But Simon wasn’t lying about Liam being a professional. He knows exactly the kind of sound he wants and he plays music for Louis that Louis knows Harry will love. They finally write a few songs about pining, like Julian wanted, and they write a power ballad that absolutely _rocks_ and it’s probably the best thing Louis has ever come up with. 

He doesn’t really mind sharing the credit with Liam and when Simon, Julian and the rest of the team check in on them on Thursday, Louis lets Liam sing most of the songs while he plays guitar steadily in the background.

Simon beams at both of them when they’re done and even Julian looks impressed. Liam wraps his arm around Louis’ shoulders and squeezes, and Louis leans in because he can’t really deny that they’re great together.

_& &&_

**_me  
_** _20:13  
_ _we’ve got a wicked song for u!_

 ****_styles h  
_ _20:20  
_ _we?_

 ** _me  
_** _20:22  
_ _me and liam at the studio_  

 **_styles h  
_** _20:26  
_ _who’s liam?_  

 **_me  
_** _20:27  
_ _the new guy simon brought in to write for your album?_  

 **_styles h  
_** _20:30  
_ _oh…i thought i was the only one you wrote with :(_  

 **_me  
_** _20:33  
_ _haha_  

 **_styles h  
_** _20:35  
_ _i can’t wait to hear it!!_  

 **_me  
_** _20:39  
_ _not even the gods above can separate the two of us, nothing can come between you and i_

 ** _styles h  
_** _21:43  
_ _sounds whiny_  

 **_me  
_** _21:44  
_ _fuck you_  

_& &&_

Louis’ in bed at midnight for the first time in ages, and he’s happy and lazy and his muscles have that delicious ache that overcomes them when you’re on the verge of sleep. It’s been a good day, productive like that first Monday back after Harry finally got the hang of writing, and Louis will be damned if he can’t get a good seven hours of sleep before he has to be back in the studio in the morning.

He’s already visualizing the deep black behind his eyelids, the way it constricts on his headspace, urging him to put his thoughts to rest. He thinks he might actually have dreams he remembers tonight, and that’s a prospect that excites him almost more than when Simon handed him his first paycheck.

But of course his phone chooses that moment to buzz to life on his nightstand. He tries to ignore it, pulls the pillow over his head and everything. But when it stops, it only takes 10 seconds for it to kick back up again.

Groaning, he snatches up the offending piece of technology and puts it to his ear without looking at who it is.

“You better have a good reason for interrupting my beauty sleep,” he hisses.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” the person on the other line trips all over himself to say. It takes Louis a second to recognize the voice as Harry’s. He hasn’t talked to him since he left last week and it’s kind of jarring to hear him so close again.

The kind of jarring that reminds him just how flustered he felt around Harry the last time he saw him. He thought he’d buried that. Which is exactly why he can’t keep a hint of concern out of his voice when he asks, “Everything all right, Harry?”

“Yeah, I just figured you’d be awake, you know, because you usually are but, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” Louis assures him, sitting up to lean against the headboard after struggling to unhook the charger. So much for seven hours. “What’s going on?”

“Well,” Harry hesitates. “I couldn’t sleep because concerts give me this kind of rush, you know. And, like, you sent me lyrics and that doesn’t help either.”

“You blaming this on your scribe, then?”

That coaxes a laugh from him. It’s choked at the beginning, like he hadn’t been expecting to find something funny this late at night. But, really, it’s past midnight. Nothing makes sense this late at night. 

“I guess I am.”  

“So is this like one of those misery loves company things? Should I give up on ever going back to sleep tonight?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

Harry laughs some more, albeit a little tamer this time. Louis closes his eyes.

“What do you want, Styles?”

“Tell me about that song you sent me?”

“But you’ll be able to hear it in person in, like a month.” Which, fine, doesn’t sound appealing to Louis either. But he _refuses_ to indulge Harry this. Louis doesn’t sing for anyone.

“ _Louuuuu_.” Oh, god. “I wanna start learning it _nowww_.”

“You’re a child, Harold. I like Liam better.”

Maybe not the best thing to say when Harry’s out somewhere performing in front of thousands of people every day and Louis’ here trying to ignore thoughts of him all the time. But he has to keep his cards close to his chest because he doesn’t need Harry getting any ideas.

Harry handles it in stride, though. There’s nothing resentful in the way he asks, “So Liam’s a good writing partner?” and Louis can hear him breathing steadily in his ear, unaffected.

“Anyone who doesn’t want to rhyme every single line is a good writing partner.”

And _there’s_ a hitch. “ _Heyyyyy_.”

“I’m serious,” Louis responds, keeping his mouth in as straight a line as possible even though Harry can’t see him. 

“Why do you put up with me then?”

“You’re easy to make fun of?”

“Please, Louis,” Harry whines. “I want to hear it.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Hmph.”

“Stop that. Stop that pouting right now.”

“You can’t even see me.”

“But I can imagine it.” 

And so much for not playing into Harry’s hands. But it’s true. Louis can see Harry in his mind in full color, lips turned out and shaded the kind of pink that gives away too many secrets. 

“Not stopping.”

“Damn it, I hate you.” Louis reaches over for his bedside lamp but misjudges its distance in the process. He tumbles to the ground, landing awkwardly on the arm he’d been using to hold up his phone. “ _Fuckkk_.”

“What was that?” Harry asks, voice pitched higher than it usually is. “Are you okay?”

Groaning, Louis rolls onto his back and rubs his elbow. At least he put his guitar down on the other side of his bed this time. “I fell off my goddamn bed, Styles, so, no, I’m not. _Shit_.”

“I don’t have to listen to that song now, Louis. We can talk it about later, when you’re not in pain?”

Problem with that is, Louis considers as he sits up and catches his breath, that as great as an excuse as that is, it might give Harry a reason to ask him to sing more than one song for him. And Louis can’t deal with that kind of pressure. There’s a reason he chose writing over singing.

“No, now is fine. But my voice is going to sound even shittier than usual and you can’t moan about it because it’s your fault.”

“Your voice is great.”

“Whatever.” Eventually, Louis gets to his guitar, but not without navigating the disaster area of his room, which is covered in laundry, clean and dirty alike. It’s a close call when he misses tripping over a mound of shoes by half a step. He probably needs to do something about that, like, you know, _clean_. 

But that’ll remove all traces of character from his dingy little flat, so really he’s just leaving the mess in the name of decor. 

Once he settles onto the edge of his bed and strums a few strings, he takes a deep breath and says, “All right, Harold. Here we go.”

He only sings through part of the second verse, throat straining when he gets to _meet in the middle, there’s always room for common ground_ , before he huffs and plays an ugly chord to cut himself off. 

But of course the first thing Harry says is, “That was really good,” and Louis’ not sure what exactly Harry’s referring to but hopefully he meant the lyrics and not Louis’ singing.

So he says, “Thanks. We thought so too,” and rubs the pads of his string-indented fingertips against the scruff on his jaw. 

“I can’t wait to learn it.”

“Yeah, you’re going to sound amazing on it.”

“Aw, thanks, Louis.”

“Shut up.” He places his guitar on top of a pile of jeans then throws himself on his bed, careful not to jar the arm he fell on. “I’m going to sleep now.”

Harry laughs, “All right. Thanks for entertaining me.”

Grumbling, “Yeah, yeah,” Louis wiggles under his covers and closes his eyes tight. Hopefully that blackness he was so close to earlier hasn’t strayed too far.

Harry breaks through it with a hopeful, “Let me know when you finish other songs?”

And Louis’ so resigned to Harry’s whims that of course the only thing he can say is, “Sure.”

“Night, Lou.”

Louis doesn’t say anything else. He just ends the call, throws the phone in the vicinity of his nightstand — he misjudged it again, if the dull thump of something falling on the carpet is anything to go by — and shuts out every single thought he has of Harry Styles.

_& &&_

A midnight phone call from Harry becomes very normal over the next two weeks. Louis doesn’t even try to go to bed any earlier once Harry rings him three nights in a row and wakes him from a light slumber _every time_.

But the funny thing is Louis doesn’t ever mind. Sure, he acts all put out, huffing and moaning about how he’ll never be productive in the studio if he can’t get at least seven hours of beauty rest. At this point, though, even Harry knows what a load of bullshit that is. Because Liam has somehow gotten a hold of Harry’s mobile number and he sends him updates every day on the stuff they’re working on. And they’ve worked on so much that when it actually comes down to deciding what songs Harry will record for this album, the producers will have more options than they’ll know what to do with.

Sometimes Harry calls and he’s gotten a copy of the music for the latest tune and rehearsed it enough to sing a “rough” version of it for Louis over the phone. And his renditions are never really rough because Harry’s voice is perfectly suited for anything they give him. They write with him in mind, sure, but it’s like Harry could sing an advert jingle and it would sound like it was made for him.

Louis tells him as much, maybe not in as many words, when Harry coughs in the middle of a chorus and apologizes for being unable to hit a high note.

“You’ve been singing all night, Haz. It’s okay.”

“Well it deserves better than that,” Harry says from some place where Louis can hear the noises from outside filtering through Harry’s speaker. 

The lad’s so dedicated to this thing he’s stumbled into almost purely on accident. Louis learns one night that Harry’s decision to audition for the X Factor took more convincing from his mum than he’d ever usually admit. Even though he’d submitted the application months before and had practiced so long, he’d gotten so nervous in the meantime that the night before his audition, he hid out in some abandoned shed in his village. It took his mum hours to find him and when she did, he’d been panicking long enough that she almost had to take him to the hospital with how sick he’d made himself.

“She kept saying I had a gift,” Harry mumbles, words slow and running together the way they do when he’s knackered. “And, like, really, it’s a mum’s job to encourage her child like that, right? So I didn’t want to believe her but she has a way of twisting my arm. Literally, actually. I got a rash on my arm from it and everything.”

Louis laughs at that, a loud one that builds deep in his stomach. If he were anyone else, he’d tell Harry he agrees with his mum, that Harry really does have a gift, that Harry’s voice is unlike any Louis’ heard in recent years, even if that might not be true. 

But Louis isn’t in a position to say stuff like that. It’s not his place to tell Harry white lies in an effort to make him feel better. He can’t help feeling like that, though, especially when Harry’s voice in his ears is so sweet and all Louis wants to do is hold onto the sound forever. Somehow the gangly-limbed idiot with the headscarves has burrowed his way into Louis’ life, a lot deeper than Louis would ever care to admit. 

He falls asleep those nights to the snuffling of Harry’s breath over the line. When he wakes up with a dead phone pressed deep into his cheek, he ignores the stupid lurch his heart gives and vows not to do it anymore. 

Of course, he’s just kidding himself. Harry could call him for no other reason than to say “hey” and Louis would probably hang on his every word. 

It’s embarrassing. Really. So he doesn’t tell anyone about his conversations with Harry. It’s not like there’s anything to tell that would interest anyone else anyway. So what if he talks to the guy he’s writing songs for on a regular basis? They’re allowed to be friends. Right? And that’s the extent of it, really. 

_& &&_

Zayn passes the jay to Niall and leans back in his couch in a way that only Zayn can look good doing. Louis kind of envies him that, how easily he fits into spaces and adopts this casual air of belonging. It takes Louis ages to feel that comfortable, and it’s not even for lack of trying. 

But he supposes this is Zayn’s flat, after all.

“What’s the song count up to now?” Zayn asks, shattering the pleasant illusion of nothingness Louis had going for him. Well, if you discount the fact that he’d been lamenting his inability to appear relaxed in even the chillest of settings.

And they’re fucking smoking. Come on.

“Like fourteen,” he answers belatedly. He had to count each of them on his fingers and he accidentally started alphabetizing them while he was at it. Niall lets out a low whistle from somewhere on the other side of the living room and Louis looks around Zayn to quirk an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Niall has cheese dip rolling slowly down the front of his shirt and it takes everything in Louis’ power not to grab a crisp and scoop it up.

Zayn is the one to speak in Niall’s place, words calculated and slow when he asks, “How’s that even possible?” 

Louis snaps his gaze back to Zayn’s face and wonders if Zayn has always had that blonde streak in his hair. He reaches out for it and rolls it between his fingers, completely ignoring Zayn’s bewildered look as he answers, “’s my job, Zaynie.”

“I think what he means is, how did you manage to write fourteen songs without _Zaynie_ around.” Niall can’t even conceal the ridicule in his voice. 

Good thing Louis’ too busy investigating Zayn’s hair to care. “You lot take that muse thing way too seriously.”

“I’m not your muse anymore?” Zayn shoves Louis’ hands away. 

“Heyyyyy.”

“You just dumped me, you arsehole.” He seems extremely put-out. “I don’t want you touching me.”

Insisting, “I don’t need a muse,” Louis throws himself over Zayn’s lap and takes Zayn’s face in both hands. It’s a little uncomfortable and he finds himself looking up Zayn’s nose at all the hairs in there, but at least he’s got his attention. “D’ya know ya have something yellow in your hair?”

Zayn’s pout turns into a very straight line. It looks bad even upside down. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“About what?”

“Since when do you not need a muse, Lou?”

Louis tilts his head back to fix Niall with a glare, which maybe makes his head hurt and Niall choke on the smoke he’s holding. But onward and upward and all that. “I’ve never _needed_ a muse.” 

“Which is why you kidnap Zayn on a regular basis.”

“I haven’t done that in ages!”

“Not since you started working for _Harry_ ,” Niall teases.

Which, no. 

“Fuck you!” Louis awkwardly reaches back with one arm to punch Niall in the thigh.

Zayn laughs under Louis. “Can’t come up with a comeback, can we?”

“Harry’s got him flustered,” Niall supplies. “Or maybe it’s that lumberjack?”

“No, it’s not! I hate you both.” Sitting up, Louis snatches the jay out of Niall’s hands and puts it in his own mouth. He doesn’t have to explain to himself to anyone. Actually, there’s nothing to explain. Period. Harry is a friend. That’s it. And he’s Louis’ employer, kind of. There’s literally _nothing_ there. Even if Louis wanted there to be — which he doesn’t — it’s impossible. Singers have weird schedules and the mere thought that Louis could fit himself into it is preposterous.

But of course Zayn and Niall take care of the explaining for him. He smokes, hoping to suppress a handful of dangerous thoughts about fucking Harry Styles, and they laugh at him and make up reasons for why Harry would be his muse. 

Zayn says, “It’s probably the hair. That’s what he liked about me.”

“Never liked you. Plus you have a stupid blonde streak in it now." 

“It has to be the dimples,” Niall suggests. 

“Those are stupid.”

And they’re both cackling at that and there would be smoke coming out of Louis’ ears if that were possible. Instead he lets smoke out of his lungs and moans dramatically because, really, Harry is _not_ his fucking _muse_. “That boy wears fucking _headbands_ and, like, blouses with hearts printed all over them.”

Niall has the nerve to say, “That’s your kind of boy!”

Which prompts Zayn to add, “Yeah, that sounds a lot like Aiden,” exuberantly. So exuberantly, in fact, that he pounds his fist on Louis’ thigh while simultaneously pointing a finger and spitting in his face. “Oh my god, yes, Aiden was exactly that kind of hipster!”

“Seriously? Aiden? Get out!” Louis yells, shoving away Zayn’s hand and throwing his elbow out at Niall, who apparated to Louis’ other side at some point during the whole stupid debate. “Was that really necessary?”

“It’s just who it reminded us of, Lou.” Niall bats his eyelashes at Louis, all innocent like he meant absolutely no harm. And, you know, Niall might be Irish and exceedingly cute at times but the lad’s got just as mean a streak in him as Zayn does. He’s devious and when he says, “You have a type,” Louis feels something feral unfurl in his stomach and he launches himself at Niall.  

Next thing he knows, his face is smushed into the couch and Niall’s elbow is digging between his shoulder blades. He’s not sure where he threw their jay and Zayn, the bastard, is just _giggling_.

He is not stoned enough for this. 

_& &&_

It still comes as a surprise when Louis’ phone wakes him the Sunday night before Harry’s due back in London. He hadn’t expected a call, had been texting Harry all day and established there really wasn’t anything to talk about. He hadn’t met up with Liam to write, he hadn’t done anything worth recounting, unless you count the cat he had to shake off on his way to Tesco’s that afternoon, and he definitely hadn’t thought about Harry the entire day. 

But of _course_ Louis picks up, even if it’s with a hoarse, “Hullo?” courtesy of the fact that he’d actually been asleep.

“Lou?” Harry asks, as if it would be anyone else. “Hey, were you sleeping?”

“Yeah, actually.” Sighing, Louis rubs insistently at one of his eyes and rolls onto his back. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“I just didn’t think you’d call me while you were on a bus back to London. Figured you’d be sleeping.”

“Sleeping’s for the dead, Louis.”

Louis laughs, “Or for someone like me, whom you never let sleep.”

“I just like keeping up with you.” Harry doesn’t sound even the least bit sorry for the fact that Louis has maybe slept a total of 25 hours this week. “Not my fault you write songs for me.”

“Hey, I’m not writing songs for _you_. I’m writing them for me, so I can get paid and stop living in squalor.”

“Oh, right. Your employment doesn’t serve an altruistic purpose, how dare I suggest that?”

God, Louis can’t stand him. It’s just unfair the way Harry makes him lose all semblance of a grip on his control. He should be embarrassed by the way Harry makes him laugh, so unrestrained and deep, something he feels deep in his gut. 

The last time he felt anything this strongly, he didn’t let himself stick around long enough to see where he would end up. He’s not sure he fancies going through that again.

“As nice as it was to be woken up from a very delightful dream by your lovely voice, Harold, I’m afraid I must inform you that I have a critical business meeting with Simon Cowell at 0800 hours.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“It will be a pleasure, I’m sure.”

Harry laughs quietly, almost breathlessly, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut. If only he could do the same with his ears, block out the noises that he really doesn’t need to be hearing right now. “Well, I can let you go. Maybe it won’t be too hard to fall asleep anymore. I think Matthew and Ingrid are finally finished.”

An image of a burly, blond man wearing a skin-tight leather shirt and a slight woman with laced-up boots and dark red hair pops up in Louis’ mind. He remembers them from a picture Harry sent one day, of the three of them backstage with the caption _they’re my spirit animals_. “They have a thing?” 

“A loud thing. It’s annoying. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard things I never wanted to hear.”

“You’re just bitter you don’t have anyone for yourself,” Louis says, though now that he thinks about it, he and Harry have never discussed their romantic lives. Maybe Harry has someone back home, someone he calls more often than Louis, who he sends annoying texts and clips of new songs to.

“Nah, I…” Harry pauses — and in that pause, Louis can’t help but hear exactly the kind of hope he needs to avoid. “I mean, that’s just not what I’m thinking about right now.”

“Starting a career’s a big deal,” Louis offers. “I get it.” Even if he doesn’t, even if he wants to be the one to make that untrue.

Fuck, he needs to go back to sleep before his thoughts get any worse.

They sit in silence a few moments, Harry’s breath gradually evening out while Louis’ mind works itself in a frenzy. There are so many things Louis needs to put a stop to but in the darkness of his room, where’s he lying on the bed he took from his old room in his mum’s house, it’s hard to stop.

“Harry?” he whispers, for no other reason than it feels like the world might be closing in on him.

Harry takes a deep breath, like he’s just broken the surface of a pool. “Hmm?”

“Are you tired yet?”

“Yeah…A little…”

“Me too,” Louis lies. He’s wide awake now, the last dregs of fatigue having evaporated the second Harry started making fun of him. 

“Okay,” Harry whispers belatedly.

“Night, mate.”

“Night, Lou.”

Louis drops his phone to the side of the mattress and rubs both his hands over his face. He’s fucked.

_& &&_

It’s not that Louis can’t write songs on his own. Having Liam around has been helpful and they’ve written some damn good lyrics in their time together. But he’s never needed a co-writer. Everything used to come naturally to him. He used to be able to just press the tip of his lucky rainbow pencil against his notepad and write for hours.

So why the fuck can’t he make anything up now? 

It’s just that sometimes this fucking box of a studio (that’s maybe a lot bigger than he gives it credit for) is suffocating. And being here at ten in the morning doesn’t help because all he wants at this hour is his bed or a nap in the tub. 

Some of the best — and “best” is really a loose term, considering he’d only sold three songs before Simon hired him — lyrics he ever penned came to him during a shower or a wee or something. He doesn’t _need_ a muse there all the time. Plus Zayn has a day job designing whatever the fuck it is he does, so it’s not like he can just occupy a corner in the studio on a Monday morning. And no matter how many times he gets texts from him or Niall, teasing him about Harry being his muse, the lad just _is not_ , all right?

But honestly, he’s been staring at a blank page in his notepad for an hour and nothing has happened. And that deadline that was once weeks away is just four days in the future and, like, Simon put a ton of pressure on him this morning, threatening to withhold a paycheck if he doesn’t come up with three more songs for them to demo by the end of the week. Three, and they’ve already got, like, sixteen. What do they even need that many options for? 

Actually, why couldn’t Harry fucking Styles come out with an EP within three months of the X Factor? Why did it have to be a deluxe edition album with an impossible number tracks that won’t even all get traction with the fans? What does Simon even _know_?  

Ten minutes later, Louis bangs his head down on the table three times, groans, “Please. Just. Come. Out.”

And that’s when he hears a snicker from ten feet behind him. It hurts when he whips head around too quickly.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses when he sees Harry failing to hide a smile behind his hand. “Didn’t you just get back?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, shrugging. “But I’ve been away long enough. Wanted to see how it was going. But it’s, like, just clearly it’s not.”

And even though it’s obvious he’s just stepped off his bus, his hair all mussed probably from sleeping against the window where he fell asleep on the phone with Louis last night, Harry’s eyes are bright and his smile is so easy and Louis can’t really explain the way his breath catches in his throat at the sight of his rumpled hoodie. 

So of course Louis says, “Fuck you,” and turns away. Harry’s laughing, of course. It’s something Louis expect by now because Harry always laughs at inappropriate moments. But he’s trying to be angry and Harry fucking sucks sometimes. “Either you make yourself useful or you go harass someone else. I’m trying to work.”

_& &&_

They fall back into writing like they haven’t been apart for weeks, like the X Factor tour was just an overnight thing that kept Harry away for a few hours too long. 

It’s nice, because before Harry arrived, Louis hadn’t written a single thing. And now his notepad is full of word clouds and unfinished lines and even some rhymes. Harry’s even trying to play Louis’ guitar, which isn’t something Louis would usually allow but, like, he’s kind of beyond playing by his own rules at this point.

Until Liam barges into the studio after lunch and steals all of Harry’s attention. Harry gushes to him about how brilliant the music he wrote is, how he and Louis make a great team and he hopes there’s a place for him in it. 

Liam, the giant teddy bear that he is, actually blushes at that and assures him, “We’re _your_ team, Harry. Of course you’re part of it.”

That makes Harry chuckle and smile brightly and, you know, even though he tries not to, Louis gets jealous. He absolutely hates the way Liam glances at the paper Harry has in front of him, which is littered with random words and lines just like the ones in Louis’ notebook, and shakes his head and says, “We should do it this way,” and then pulls out his keyboard to show Harry exactly how he thinks the song should sound.

He hates how Harry eats up everything Liam says like he didn’t just eat lunch with Louis a few hours ago. And the way that Liam preens under Harry’s attention like Harry’s some kind of god — that bothers Louis too.  

For the rest of the afternoon, while Harry and Liam are basically cuddled together at the high table on the other side of the room, Liam’s keyboard set up right next to them, Louis’ left to hang out on the couch with his feet dangling off the edge and no one to talk to or bounce ideas off of. 

Not that he’s getting any ideas because he can’t really think for the chattering of the two gits.

“Do you two quite mind being quiet?” he finally snaps. “Some of us are actually trying to work here.” If Louis is using his pencil as a mustache, no one mentions anything.

“We’re working too, mate,” Liam says easily, smiling that stupid Liam smile Louis got used to while Harry was away. Maybe he’s not such a terrible person but can he please stop being so productive, thank you?

Harry’s eyebrows draw together but his forehead smooths out within a few seconds. “We’ve got an idea, Lou! Don’t you wanna hear it?”

“No.” Louis ignores how the excitement shining in Harry’s eyes dulls. “I want to finish what I started this morning. This album won’t write itself if we can’t produce at least one song per day, you know.”

“What’s crawled up your arse?” Liam sounds genuinely concerned but Louis just glares at him.  

“I walked in on him banging his head on the table this morning,” Harry adds after a few seconds, because, perfect, that’s exactly what Liam needs to hear.  

It takes every ounce of self control in his body not to yell when he says, “Can you just discuss a little quieter?” 

Liam seems to notice and draws his shoulders in a little bit, like he’s just been scolded by his mum or something. “Sorry, mate. We’ll tone it down.”

And they do. But as soon as the clock hits five, Louis packs his stuff up and he doesn’t wait either Liam or Harry out. They’ve been annoying enough. And he’s determined to write this goddamn song, whether they help him or not.

_& &&_

It’s past ten that night when Louis finally starts putting the finishing touches on his lyrics and he’s about to work on chords when he checks the phone that’s been steadfastly on silent since he got home. It’s just lit up with a fifth missed call from Harry and, god, he really shouldn’t answer it. 

But five is a pretty large number and his phone is buzzing again, so…“Hello?”

“Hey, you finally answered!”

Louis throws himself onto his couch and sighs. “Yeah, I put my phone on silent when I got home. Been writing, you know how it goes.” 

“And did it go?” 

“Indeed, Harold. I’ll have something for you in the morning.”

“That’s great, Lou.”

“Yep. So is there something I can help you with? I’m trying to write music.”

“Oh.” The deep breath Harry takes makes Louis’ palms sweat. Really. And it’s stupid because Harry talks hesitantly, like he’s afraid to offend Louis, when he says, “Well, yeah, I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You cleared out fast earlier and I wasn’t sure if you might have been sick or something like that.”

Leave it to Harry to be concerned about Louis’ health, of all things, when Louis was being a right bitch to him the last few hours they were together. “Yeah, everything’s fine on my end. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, good. Don’t need you coming down with anything now that we’re finally making progress, right?”

Louis hums in agreement and closes his eyes. Chords filter into his mind in the silence, dominants that are just as happy as the lyrics he wrote despite being in an awful mood. He’s so into putting them together that he misses something Harry says and has to ask him to repeat himself.

Harry sounds strained when he asks, apparently for a second time, “Are you mad at me?” 

Well, great. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know. You just seemed weird when Liam came in and I thought you two got on fine but you kind of…weren’t nice to him.”

“I was nice!” Of course Louis actually knows he wasn’t but it wouldn’t be right for him to just sit there and let Harry explain everything like he knows everything there is to know about Louis. Because he doesn’t. And he won’t. Plus it’d probably be a breach of self-preservation if he didn’t defend himself.

“You kept muttering under your breath all afternoon.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Louis.”

“I do not mutter, Styles,” Louis says primly, enunciating every syllable firmly and sitting up straight. “I say what I think. And you two decided not to listen to me, so whose fault is that?”

“So you _were_ mad?”

“Oh, for god’s sake, no. I’m fine.” After a second, he adds, “We’re all fine,” because it’s probably something Harry needs to hear. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But before Louis can properly sign off, Harry blurts, “Well, we finished our song too, you know. We wanted to play it for you but you left before we got the chance.”

“I was struck with inspiration and I needed to get home as soon as I could before I forgot everything I wanted to write.”

Harry scoffs, “Right,” and Louis decides he doesn’t like the bitterness of it. 

“What are you implying, Harold?”

“Nothing. I’ll let you go, I guess. See you tomorrow.”

Harry does was Louis couldn’t do and hangs up without a goodbye.

_& &&_

So maybe Louis comes in like a dog with his tail between his legs on Tuesday morning. Harry doesn’t even acknowledge him after he shuts the studio door behind him, which is weird and makes Louis’ throat dry up.

He ducks his head, avoiding eye contact with both him and Liam while he goes about setting himself up for the day. But once Liam’s plunking at keys on his piano turns into full-out playing, Louis clears his throat and stands in front of them with his guitar clenched tightly in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He almost leaves the apology at that but then Harry looks at him, eyes a little wider and something like a plea welled inside them. “For being a twat yesterday.”

Harry smiles, and maybe Louis wasn’t apologizing just so he could get back on Harry’s good side, but it feels like he’s maybe just won something when Harry throws his pen at him and agrees, “You absolutely were a twat.”

“Wait, you don’t usually act like that?” Liam says, smirking like he’s just made the best joke.

But there’s no malice in Louis’ voice when he says, “Fuck you, Payno,” and shrugs his guitar strap over his head.

“He is right, Lou. You tend to bite people’s heads off when you’re grumpy.”

Louis glares. “Do you want to hear the song I wrote yesterday or not?” 

Threats, Louis learns quickly, are an easy way to shut Harry Styles up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't make promises on when I'll update next because I keep getting carried away for, like, months at a time now. But my internship is winding down and I'll have so much free time to write in the next month that the next chapter should be done sooner rather than later. And, like, a lot more Larry-centric, that I can promise.


	4. Chapter 4

At five on Friday afternoon, Liam’s got his guitar in his case, his notebooks shoved into a rucksack and his keyboard safely tucked away in a corner of the studio. Louis and Harry are sat watching him from the high table, heads tilted to the side, feet crossed under themselves and the sides of their hands smudged with pencil lead. The perfect image of confusion. If Louis didn’t know any better, if the rest of this week hadn’t run as smoothly as it had, he’d think Liam was maybe too excited to get away.

But that would be way too far from the truth, because the three of them got so much done that they were able to spend their last official writing day fucking around on the instruments and getting a head start on other tunes. Even now he and Harry have a half-written chorus under their noses. They’ve just lost a rainbow pencil to the cause, and Louis can’t even bring himself to care. He feels like a whole new person.

Which is why he has to bring in some drama and screech at Liam, “And where do you think _you’re_ going, leaving us in a lurch?”

Harry gives Louis this look that’s a cross between “perplexed” and “thrilled” and Liam’s face visibly crumples with guilt and it’s the most hilarious reaction Louis’ got out of them all week. The laughter bursts out of him unbidden, twisting through his body and tearing at his ribs and it’s impossible to even try keeping himself together.

Through watery eyes he can see Liam flipping him the bird and hiking his guitar onto his back. “Sophia’s here from uni, you twat. Her train’s due in an hour, so I need to go. Harry, you’ll make sure he doesn’t die, right?” Louis only laughs harder. “Actually, I think I might quite like him dead, if it’s all the same to you.”

“A pity to lose such a good lyricist,” Harry says, affecting some kind of remorse, but Louis can see right through his bull shit, tears and all. “I’ll bury the body, don’t worry.”

“You’re a load of shit, Styles,” Louis manages, voice barking a bit as he composes himself. It’s hard work reining yourself back in, he realizes, especially after working so hard. He really just needs to unwind for a few days, let Harry record in peace and get back to sleeping until noon and spending all day in a haze.

Yes, actually, he needs that _now_. As soon as Liam’s gone, Louis texts Zayn and Niall about being tired and wanting to drink and smoke himself into a stupor. Zayn responds almost immediately, asking him to toss in Gogglebox, and _yes_ , Louis’ got weeks of that show backlogged right now, what a great idea. 

He’s so focused on the prospect of melting into his couch, like actually becoming part of its fibers (he’s tired, he can’t help the images his mind conjures up), that Louis hardly registers Harry talking to him as they lock the studio door on their way out. Something about plans during his time off as he’s jimmying the door handle to get it to lock.

_You know, getting high, drinking_. But Louis only offers, “Sleep. And probably catch up with some mates since you’ve been commanding all my attention,” because Harry doesn’t quite know him like that.

Laughing, “That sounds good,” Harry turns away from the studio and roots Louis to the spot with his green-eyed gaze. It’s all of Harry’s attention on him in a non-work setting — he’s not used to that kind of thing. 

“What about you?” he asks, suddenly forgetting that the way you have a conversation is by prompting your partner to speak.

“I’ll probably just zone out in front of the telly all day. Mind numbing, that kind of thing.”

“You deserve it. We’ve worked really hard. And you haven’t even taken a break since tour.” Louis adjusts the shoulder straps of his guitar case, just for something to do. It’s not a nervous habit or anything like that. It’s just — well, it just makes it a lot easier to have an excuse to dart his eyes away from Harry’s if he has something to occupy him. 

Harry nods, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. The position doesn’t look comfortable for his broad shoulders. It kind of looks like he’s trying to make himself smaller and Louis doesn’t get why Harry would ever need to do something like that. Maybe he’s embarrassed Louis praised him or something. There is some red blooming on his cheeks after all.

But Louis doesn’t really know what else he’s supposed to say. Harry does deserve to take the weekend for himself, forget about his record even if it means putting off the inevitable for just 48 hours until he’s back at the studio again. That lad that waltzed into the studio months ago with a stupid headscarf — he’s done so much to prove himself. Louis can appreciate that, but there’s only so many ways he can phrase that for Harry to hear. 

“I mean it,” he starts, trying to express the conviction he feels by reaching out a hand to squeeze Harry’s arm. He’s actually always struggled doing this kind of stuff, getting in touch with emotions and sharing _feelings_ and whatever. His mum, especially, tried every possible way to get him to speak up about the things that mattered. Louis’ just always been stubborn; that’s what it really boils down to. So Harry should appreciate his efforts here, because honestly Louis wouldn’t usually even try to touch someone to get them to listen. “You’ve been amazing, Harry, and I feel like no one has taken the time to —” 

That’s exactly the moment Harry decides to cut into Louis’ hastily planned diatribe about how much progress Harry’s made on the writing front with an almost frantic, “Do you want to go get some dinner?”

It leaves Louis stunned, blinking rapidly and trying to draw some kind of meaning from the way Harry’s gnawing at his bottom lip with sharp white teeth. Because one second Louis was gearing up for a pep talk and now Harry’s anxiously rocking back and forth on his feet, waiting for Louis to respond. There’s no way he’s asking Louis on a date, right? He should probably ask, but a puny, breathless “What?” is all he can come up with instead. Harry’s blown the wind right out of his sails, has completely scrubbed all words from Louis’ mind. 

He adds unnecessarily, “With me?” as if he’s afraid Louis missed the implication — which, in what world would that even be possible? If Louis weren’t still gaping, still so very thoroughly confused about the turn of events he’s experienced in front of this studio door, he’d blurt out something about not being an idiot, no matter what Simon might think of him. 

But Harry’s already forging ahead with, “I mean, you had, like, that salad for lunch, so you’ve gotta be even hungrier than me,” and Louis didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he sighs, relieved that everything he just built up in his head in the last twenty seconds was for nothing. Harry’s just asking him out to dinner as friends. He doesn’t know a ton of people here yet anyway. And a romantically interested person, right, would probably stay away from making fun of someone they’re asking out on a date. Social cues, Louis knows all about those — or at least he’s pretty sure he does.

Which is why he responds the only way he knows how, sarcastic as ever when he says, “I’ve ate like shit all week, I _needed_ that salad,” feigning as much offense as he can muster.

“We can get something marginally healthy if you want.”

“Are you offering to pay?” Right. Not a date. Louis is _joking._ He can definitely afford to buy his own food.

But then Harry laughs, bright and unrestrained with a, “Yeah, I guess I am,” tucked into the melody of his voice. 

That’s fine, really, because the _I guess_ he threw in there means he wasn’t planning on paying for him in the first place. Friends do this kind of thing all the time. He guesses somewhere in the middle of all the phone calls and the writing sessions that they became proper _mates_.

“Of course you are,” Louis says. “You just won a ton of money. I think you can afford two meals.”

“So is that a yes?” Harry’s smiling so hard his dimples look strained and his headscarf looks like it’s about to come loose.

_Not a date_. But now Louis has to cancel on both his best mates and there’s no way either of them is going to be cool about the whole thing, what with Harry supposedly being Louis’ new muse and all. He can already see the _oooh finally stickin it to him huh? ;)_ and the _about fucking time tommo_ texts Zayn and Niall are going to send him.

He risks it, though. For the free food.

_& &&_

They set off to find somewhere nearby, Louis’ guitar case banging against his back, the pair of them looking like proper hipsters in the late evening sun, strolling the streets of London with nothing to do on a Friday night. 

It’s like all those conversations they had when Harry was on tour. It’s seamless, natural teasing and joking and just talking about nothing. Louis would have thought it’d be hard to talk about non-work things but he finds himself filing away so many details about Harry. Like his new obsession with Spider-man and his experience with a goat when he was a child and the fact that he’s always hated the color orange for no other reason than that it reminds him of fire.

Even throughout dinner they can’t keep themselves quiet. Louis had never thought he would be one for comfortable silences, so it’s not exactly a problem. He’s always been brimming with words, even if it’s just nonsense babble, which is why he knew writing would always work out for him. But it turns out Harry’s much the same way he is, unable to take anything too seriously and cracking every lame joke he can come up with.

“You know,” he starts seriously, slurping up the last bit of his pasta through his teeth. Louis doesn’t tell him he has a bit of parsley stuck to the corner of his mouth because it’s a lot more fun to watch their waiter squirm uncomfortably whenever he comes by to top off their glasses and Harry thanks him with a smile. “Singing in the shower is all fun and games until you get shampoo in your mouth.”

“Random.” Louis wipes his mouth, sets his napkin back in his lap like a proper gentleman, and leans forward on the table with his elbows propped up. “Got an explanation, Styles?”

“Then it just becomes a soap opera.”

Louis groans and covers his face while Harry muffles his laughter into the sleeve of his plaid shirt. Of fucking course.

_& &&_

If Louis had been in his right mind, he would have begged off after dinner. He would have given Harry a hug, fussed around with his head scarf a bit because it’s always been the perfect joke and bade him farewell for the next few days. He would have bumped fists with him, thanked him exaggeratedly for feeding him and ran to the nearest tube stop before his fingers froze over due to his lack of gloves. 

But Louis wasn’t in his right mind at the end of their meal. He was instead entranced by the way Harry’s fingers curled around the pen as he signed the bill, amused by the way he spoke out of the corner of his mouth about his mum’s newfound obsession with owl figurines, chuffed by the way Harry laughed at every single one of Louis’ awful jokes.

And it was completely ridiculous of him at the time — he knows that much. But parting ways didn't really feel like an option, not when he was really finally getting to know Harry the person, as opposed to Harry the guy he wrote songs for and sometimes cursed late at night when he couldn’t stop seeing music fit itself together on the backs of his eyelids.

So here he is now, still wandering the streets late on a Friday night, Harry Styles close to his side. It’s not a date — they established that early enough and Louis is _not_ delusional — but it’s starting to feel a whole lot more like one as their steps lead them farther and farther from the center of activity. Which is why Louis buys them each a hot tea, not wanting Harry to feel like he’s the only one funding this little excursion.

Plus, it’s nearing a time where it’s cold enough that their breaths make dense clouds around their heads. Louis needs something to keep his frigid hands warm and distract Harry from this _riveting_ story about his cat. It’s a very legitimate excuse.

Louis only picks up the thread of their conversation once he’s downed half his drink in five minutes without hopelessly scalding his tongue. He’d had to ignore the way Harry watched him with a delighted quirk to his lips, like Louis’ some kind of zoo animal that requires constant surveillance. He’s not sure he likes the way it feels to be under that much of Harry’s scrutiny — but he’s also not sure he doesn’t like it.

“So you woke up with a cat on your face and you let it stay there?” he asks.

Harry shrugs, swirling his own cup around in his right hand. “He didn’t like storms.”

“I’ve yet to meet an animal that liked storms.” Louis inches a little to his right, not wanting to be on the receiving end when Harry eventually sloshes his drink around violently enough for it to spill over the lid. It _will_ happen. Harry’s the kind of bloke who gesticulates wildly without much regard for his surroundings. “But that doesn’t mean I’d let him lie on my face.”

“Dusty was a special creature, Louis.”

Louis snorts and sips the rest of his tea until there’s just the dregs of it left. Apparently he’s also the kind of bloke who gives pets fake names and probably even swaddles them and puts them in Halloween costumes. “God, what are _you_ like during storms?”

“I’m the guy that likes to cuddle with his cat.”

That’s what he thought. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but his statement lacks the usual disdain he would reserve for people like Harry. It should worry him that Harry has already shifted Louis’ worldview, even if it’s only by a few metres, but then he has to actually reckon with the force that is Harry Styles. 

The same Harry Styles who removes Louis’ cardboard cup from his stiff fingers, tosses it in a bin with a smile and says, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Louis just stands there, curling his hands into balls in his pockets and watching as Harry’s long legs take him a few steps ahead, as Harry glances at him over his shoulder and waves for Louis to catch up. Louis shouldn’t. They’ve walked so far that he could take the train from the station a block away and make it to his flat in ten minutes.

But Harry just keeps going and Louis keeps following and he’s not tired of hanging out with him yet.

Once Louis has caught up, Harry gives Louis his own cup of tea with the excuse that he doesn’t want Louis’ hands to get frost bite. Louis rolls his eyes because he hasn’t completely forgotten how to be a sarcastic prat, but he does duck his head and if Harry were to ask him why his face was so red he’d blame it on the wind whipping around them and the heat from his tea.

“So my sister sent me the new Spider-man for my birthday last month and I haven’t watched it yet. Want to do that now, actually.” Harry pauses. “Do you want to join me?”

Louis almost chokes on his tea. “You asking me to your flat, Styles?”

Harry has the decency to blush and, god, Louis will not get out of this alive, will he? He wants to make a joke of the whole thing because he doesn’t want to admit that maybe he likes Harry, but here Harry is making just as much a fool of himself as Louis is and he isn’t running away. He’s asking Louis to come with him and who is Louis to say anything other than, “Sure, Haz. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

“Well don’t spoil it.”

Louis widens his eyes dramatically and gasps, “You don’t know how it ends?”

Harry points a menacing finger in his face, a gesture undermined by the smile playing on his lips. “Shut it.”

“Do you have tissues?”

“Ahh!” Harry punches him in the shoulder and Louis can’t feel anything but the laughter bubbling up from his stomach.

_& &&_

Watching the movie isn’t awkward at all. They each take up one corner of the couch in Harry’s sparsely decorated flat — _I just moved here, all right? Don’t make fun of me_ — and they share a huge bowl of popcorn, propped steadily on the cushion separating them, and Louis makes a mess of his hands and tries not to leave greasy fingerprints on the brand new leather he’s sitting on. But other than that, it’s a great time.

And when Gwen Stacy plummets out of Peter’s hands, Louis sneaks a glance at Harry only to find him crying. He’s actually embarrassed enough to wipe his face with buttery fingertips and Louis can’t help but laugh as he fetches a tissue off the coffee table to hand to him. 

“You’ve got butter,” he explains, trying so hard to rein himself back. “Everywhere.”

Then Harry tosses popcorn at him and the next thing they know, they’re having to rewind the last part of the film because they got too distracted chucking kernels at each other to watch the ending the first time through.

They put in a second film because Louis has officially lost all forms of restraint. 

_& &&_

Louis doesn’t remember falling asleep, nor does he remember Harry getting up to drape a blanket over him. But it feels nice to wake up in the morning without an alarm blaring at him to get the fuck out of bed. His mouth tastes a lot like the cheese they put in their sandwiches in the middle of the night and his neck has a slight crick, but he hasn’t felt this relaxed in ages.

“Stylessss,” he groans from the couch, stretching out his limbs and finding that Harry’s not even in the room. “This leather couch was a great investment. Simon should be proud of you.”

When he doesn’t get a response, he gets up to peek into the room Harry remembers pointing out as his and finds him stretched out on his bed in nothing but his pants. He’s snoring softly, face half-buried in his pillow, and Louis feels that awful pang in his chest that he’s started almost liking.

“Harry?” he tries again, because he doesn’t want to get caught watching Harry sleep, for god’s sake.

But Harry’s gone, deep in slumber, and Louis needs to get home now before he does something he regrets, like cover him with a blanket or something.

_& &&_

He’s not avoiding Harry.

Harry texts Louis at half two in the afternoon thanking him for locking the door when he left and for letting him sleep. _that was real nice lou, seriously_.

And Louis is not avoiding Harry but he doesn’t send a response, just digs into the bag of stale crisps he found in his mostly empty kitchen and watches all the football that he can find on the telly that day.

_& &&_

“Why aren’t you talking to him?”

Louis rolls his head lazily along the top of his cushy couch and licks his lips of the bittersweet tang left behind by his beer. “I’m not avoiding him,” he tells Zayn slowly, calculatedly. He’s not had too much but, like, there are four empty bottles scattered around the living room and he’s pretty sure all of them are his because Zayn’s a lot neater with the way he drinks.

Speaking of, Zayn looks supremely unimpressed, an eyebrow climbing up high enough to partially hide beneath his styled fringe. This can’t be good. “Yeah? So why do you flinch every time you get a text?”

“I do _not_ flinch!” But, of course, in the next instant his phone vibrates on the coffee table and Louis almost drops the beer he’s currently nursing onto the fluffy carpet. “Fuck.”

Zayn nudges him with his sock-clad foot and tilts his head. Kinda like a dog confused by what its owner is telling him. Or something. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of _anything_ ,” Louis huffs. Indignation has always suited him, he thinks. He punches Zayn in the calf, turns away so there’s no valid excuse Zayn could come up with to touch him, and crosses his arms awkwardly in front of his chest without spilling his beer.

That’s true talent. Not Harry Styles and his voice that fits into every crevice of Louis’ life. _God_ , when did he become so invested in a man who won a singing competition of all things. That’s a pretty, like, shallow way to get into the business, if you ask Louis. It’s not like he really earned it, like he toiled away on the streets, busking in the dead of winter or getting turned down by every recording label because his voice wasn’t mature enough or something.

Zayn breaks into Louis’ mental rant with, “You’re being an idiot,” as if he could read Louis’ mind. 

Louis chugs the rest of his beer in one go, makes sure it’s empty and then lets it fall from his fingers and onto the floor. “I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“I thought there wasn’t anything to talk about?”

A grunt is all Louis offers in acknowledgment. He’s not going to allow himself to be played by Zayn fucking Malik while there’s footie on. Niall would totally get it. Louis wishes he would get here already, save him from Zayn’s intense stares and judgy remarks, all these things he doesn’t understand about Harry. Shit, Louis doesn’t even understand. He can’t figure out if liking Harry — if there is one thing Louis has come to terms with by now it’s that he likes Harry because he wouldn’t have had to flee Harry’s flat this morning if he didn’t _like him_ — is against the rules, if he’s allowed to act on these stupid feelings. So how could _Zayn_?

_& &&_

Niall brings three bags of Chinese takeaway, a jug of water and a few spliffs and Louis can’t imagine a moment where he could possibly ever be more thankful for Niall in his life.

“You’re a saint,” Louis says, tripping over the syllables — but only a little bit. He has made a pretty large dent in his supply of alcohol but it’s not like he’s _that_ drunk. He can still see clearly and he hasn’t made any stupid decisions like look at all the texts he’s got from Harry since the first one he sent that afternoon. Everything about his life is completely in tact, thank you very —

“You look like shit, mate,” Niall states, tone warping into something like bemused disgust. Louis pouts and tries to punch him in the chest. He lands a soft blow to Niall’s arm instead, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, and staggers back to deposit himself on the couch next to a silently brooding Zayn, weed forgotten. It’s actually Zayn’s fault Louis brought out his second six-pack. He wasn’t talking and Louis really had no other means of distraction, so it was a lot easier to latch onto a seventh bottle than to approach thoughts of Harry.

“He been like that all day?”

“You mean acting like a dickhead?”

“I’m right ’ere!”

“Yes,” Zayn continues, looking straight through Louis like he doesn’t even matter. It hurts a little.

“Hey, that hurts,” he says, pouting and ready to keep his face like that for as long as it takes Zayn to take back the insult. But Zayn keeps staring for what feels like an eternity and Louis is actually a lot more interested in drinking beer than waiting Zayn out.

So he loses himself in the maltiness of his brown ale and the episode of Gogglebox that’s currently on his telly from last week. He’s only vaguely aware of Niall and Zayn moving around him, talking in muffled tones about something Louis doesn’t care about while things clatter in the background. 

He’s in the middle of wondering what it would be like to watch Gogglebox with Harry — actually, that would be a good idea, he’s very interested in what Sandy and Sandra had to say about him on the X Factor — when the screen goes black and Niall is suddenly sitting on top of him. 

“The hell, man?” he screeches none too calmly, and starts pushing at the git of an Irishman crushing his thighs. What, he thought Louis could support all ten stone of his weight? Louis curses his severe lack of hand-eye coordination and the amount of alcohol pumping through his veins for his inability to dislodge Niall. “Get _off_!”

“Not ’til you talk to us ’bout Harry.”

Zayn adds from next to the television, jabbing the air threateningly with the remote, “You’re being so vague about the entire thing. What did you do, molest him?”

“Yeah, did ya kiss him and then he punched you?”

“No!”

Out of nowhere Louis’ face is tingling warmly where Niall’s palm slapped him. He gasps, as dramatically as his drunken self can, and rubs at it. There’ll probably be a mark there tomorrow. “ _Oww_!”

“Oh, stop your cryin’,” Niall mutters, finally rolling onto the couch and allowing Louis to breathe deeply again. Which might be an exaggeration but it’s so not the point. The point is his best mates are being belligerent, _again_ , and Louis is just not sober enough to handle this in an adult manner.

“You fuckin’ _hit_ me, Niall!” Zayn throws the remote and it clips Louis in the shoulder. Now he’s a human punching bag. “Not you too!”

“Talk to us, you fuckwit,” Zayn says, coming over to kick lightly at Louis’ shin. He doesn’t even look sorry about it, like hitting Louis comes second nature to him. Whatever happened to the Zayn that was remorseful when he slapped Louis the day Simon Cowell first wanted him to come to the studio?

Louis might be drunk but he’s not completely numb yet. He can feel everything. And he’s going to wake up to bruises all over his body and if anyone catches sight of him they’d think he’s stuck in an abusive relationship. What if he ran into _Harry_?

“Oh my god,” he groans, pulling the collar of his oversized jumper over his head and holding it there so he can panic into the worn fabric of it. His breathing makes it hot in there fast but at least he’s able to shut out all the light in the room and _try_ to think, even if sorting through his drunken thoughts is fucking hard. There’s a constant chorus of _Harry_ circling around like a marquee, and a theme on _I could never tell_ underlying it all. Because that’s how he really feels about this whole thing. Even if Harry didn’t turn him down, what would Simon think? They’re both his employees — there has to be something against workplace relationships in their contracts. And what if Harry doesn’t want to be out yet? What if he doesn’t want people to know about his sexuality and therefore he can’t be seen hanging around London with Louis and he’d rather keep their relationship confined to secret outings and weekends at home? Louis is _not_ going back into the closet, not when figuring out he’s gay was hard enough. But he’s also not going to force Harry to do something he doesn’t want to do and —

“Take a breath, Lou,” Zayn interrupts, smashing Louis to his chest and rubbing the part of his hair that’s sticking out of the neck hole. Louis hadn’t even realized he was talking out loud.

A voice that could only be Niall’s says through the thick cotton surrounding Louis’ ears, “You’re workin’ yourself up for nothin’, Louis. You haven’t even talked to him yet.”

“You’re allowed to give yourself a chance with him, you know?” 

Actually, Louis _doesn’t_ know, and he tries to say that much but a hiccup gets in the way. Just like _everything_ gets in the way and —

“You’re being a fuckin’ drama queen. Shut up!”

“ _Niall_ ,” Zayn hisses, patting Louis’ back as if he hadn’t just been throwing remotes at him and physically wounding him.

“I’m serious,” Niall says, and that’s when Louis finds himself wrenched out of Zayn’s arms with his jumper pulled back down. He blinks blearily against the overhead lights and the withering quality of Niall’s gaze. “What actually _happened_?”

“That’s the point. Nothing happened.”

“Why are you so angsty, then?”

Louis glares at Zayn. “I’m not a teenager!”

“You’re acting like one.”

“Nothing happened, okay?” Louis pushes up to his feet, not caring when Zayn yelps in response to Louis accidentally treading over his toes because he deserves some violence too. He needs to put distance between the three of them before he makes some stupid drunk decision to ask them to talk to Harry on his behalf or something equally juvenile and _stupid_ , and if stepping on Zayn is the only way to get what he wants, he very well will do it. “That’s the whole point!”

“So,” Niall starts, but Louis’ too busy stumbling into the kitchen for a glass of water to really pay attention. It might not be a huge thing to them, but the last time Louis liked someone this intensely, he bailed himself out and the only thing he let himself keep from that relationship was a song he sold to a Scottish band that never amounted to anything. He might have a contract this time around, but there’s way too much at stake for him to act on a silly flight of fancy without considering all the repercussions. Like what if Harry figures out he actually hates Louis? Then he’ll have an album full of tracks Louis wrote _for_ him and he’ll probably never want to perform them. Maybe Harry’s team would end up blacklisting every song that has Louis’ name on it and Louis would never get any royalties from radio play. And not only would it be a waste of a debut, but Simon would never hire him on again for fear that he’ll end up falling for another artist.

“Reputation is a big fucking deal!” Louis yells once he’s slammed an empty cup onto the counter. Everything in the kitchen — which isn’t much, considering he doesn't do cooking — rattles in place, much like the way his brain rattles around in his head, everything fuzzy around the edges except for this _one thing_ he’s sure about. “It’s _huge_ and if this backfires, I’d be blacklisted and I’ll have to go on the dole or something.”

Niall and Zayn pop their heads around the edge of the doorjamb, like they’re too afraid to step foot in the actual kitchen. Louis can’t really blame him because he is known to get violent when he’s drunk and angry. And now that he’s both of those things, he’s feeling an itch to cause some major damage to Zayn’s quiff and Niall’s knees.

But really all he can do is mutter, “Don’t just _stare_ at me,” lean against the window and scrub his face with his hands. “I can’t think in this environment.”

One of his friends laughs — he can’t figure out which one but, g _od_ , they’re such big bloody pillocks, the both of them — and then Zayn’s saying, quite sensibly, “You won’t be on the dole.”

Fuck sensibility, though. Louis’ having a _crisis_ , can’t Zayn tell from the way he’s wrecking every last strand of his greasy hair with his blunt fingernails? There is too much at stake here, more than Louis can comfortably handle, and why can’t they all just be irrational? 

“I need another beer,” he moans, finally giving up on appearances and letting himself slide down to the floor with his head pressed to his knees. Niall and Zayn have seen worse.

_& &&_

It’s not until midnight that Louis can get a hold of his mobile and check what he missed without bursting into tears. Niall had sat on him, force-feeding him slimy noodles with a fork, and Zayn had snuggled him into his side for an hour, each of them going on about how he deserved to give Harry a shot and, “Aiden was a long time ago, Louis.” Louis had wanted to scream — the two of them lecturing him and a mounting beer headache had been a pretty lethal combination — but he’d reined himself in enough to at least pretend to listen. He ended up inadvertently absorbing everything they had to say, and by the time Niall’s fork came up empty from the takeaway box, Louis had resolved to at least text Harry back.

But that was almost two hours ago. Now Louis’ sitting on his lumpy mattress in the dark, surrounded by even lumpier pillows and covered in a too thin duvet, his cheeks streaked with dried tears and his fingers shaking on the screen of his iPhone. There’s a giant number five on his messages app and there’s absolutely no way each of those texts isn’t from Harry. But if he clicks on them, he’d be giving way too much away. He’s not sure he’s ready for that.

Then his mobile vibrates with a new text from Niall in the group message, accusing Louis with a _why havent you updated us yet?!_ So he doesn’t really have a choice but to click over to his thread with Harry and face the string of five blue message bubbles in a row.

****_**styles h**  
_ _14:31_  
thanks for hanging out with me! and locking the door and letting me sleep was considerate too haha. that was real nice lou, seriously.

_15:12  
I think you left a pack of guitar picks!!!_

_16:47  
I cannot stop watching this movie. NOT GWEN, NOOOO :(_

_17:27  
You’re not writing more songs, are you? Cause if you are, you know you have to share and I want them now!_

_19:58  
Are you alive????_

They all take turns worming around Louis’ stomach and kicking around, giving him an unwelcome bout of nausea. If he hadn’t already dry-heaved in the toilet after Niall’s valiant attempt at giving him sustenance, he’d probably do it now, just for show. 

But he decides to do the responsible thing and text back, just after midnight, _don’t worry you haven’t got rid of me yet! aha x_

Not quite the confession they’d all decided would be a good idea, but it’s better than nothing. He’ll just have to wait.

_& &&_

When Louis surfaces into consciousness at eight, there are two new messages on his lock screen and something that feels like an anvil crushing his skull. He can’t decipher the notifications, vision turned blurrier than usual by the headache that has taken residence in his behind his eyes, but he takes a risk at swiping across the screen, activating Siri with a press of the home button and groaning, “Head exploding send help now.” It’s with a blind touch of the screen where he presumes the send button to be that he releases his plea for assistance into cyberspace. Then he covers his head with a pillow and shuts his eyes again.

_& &&_

There’s a banging somewhere in the apartment the next time Louis wakes up. It sounds an awful lot like pots hitting the hob and cupboard doors swinging shut. Zayn must have decided he felt bad for letting Niall feed him cold Chinese food and is making him a real meal to make up for it. Not that Louis ever remembers Zayn cooking for him before but he’ll take it.

Well, he will, once his head pieces itself back together or regenerates or something and it doesn’t feel like his brain is leaking out onto his pillows.

_& &&_

The mug of scalding hot tea Louis is balancing in his weak fingers almost shatters onto the floor when he stumbles out of his room to find a very put together Harry Styles in his living room. Of course, Harry doesn’t seem to notice Louis’ utter lack of attractiveness in this moment — or he chooses not too, as a grin stretches his mouth wide and his hand comes up to wave excitedly. But Louis is in an oversized, sweat-soaked t-shirt and he can feel his hair pointing in every possible direction and his stubble growing by the second and Harry, the very reason Louis is even in this state, _is in his flat_.

You can’t blame him for having absolutely no tact when he asks, high-pitched and raspy, “What are you doing here?” 

That doesn’t seem to affect Harry at all, though. He just sits on Louis’ favorite piece of furniture, offers him the kindest smile Louis has ever seen, and responds, “You told me to send help. Ta da!”

Louis winces but he tries to hide it with a sip from his mug of tea. It has a little too much sugar but it does enough to calm down the swirling thoughts in his mind and get him to breathe again. So it was Harry he texted this morning. Right. But that doesn’t explain how he got into his flat. Considering the door doesn’t show any signs of a break in, and Louis does give it a glance to make sure, either Harry is a criminal who knows how to pick industrial locks or he is just smart enough to find the key Louis hid inside the elephant statue next to his welcome mat.

He’s also apparently smart enough to read Louis’ face, because he laughs and pre-empts Louis’ brow furrow with, “I asked Simon for your address when I couldn’t find it in my phone.”

“So I’ve got a stalker situation on my hands now,” Louis says, tucking himself into the corner of the couch that’s farthest from Harry’s reach. Maybe if he stays far enough away, Harry will be able to ignore Louis’ absolutely disgusting state even longer. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”

“You brought this on yourself by texting me for help.”

“True, but I didn’t think you’d take it seriously.” He also didn’t think he was texting Harry, but what he doesn’t know won’t kill him. It’s actually pretty convenient that Harry is here, just a few feet away and in a perfect position for Louis to tell him everything. But Louis’ also itching to have him hundreds of miles away. It’s all a little too fresh, and the headache that’s faded into a faraway thumping in his skull hasn’t quite let him feel at peace about the whole thing. 

It doesn’t help that Harry looks every inch the artfully tousled model from the magazine Louis subtly picked up at Tesco’s the other week. His hair is loose, curls dangling over his shoulders, and his blue jumper entices Louis with the promise of warm cuddles and, like, Louis is sitting here drinking tea in sweaty pajamas. Yet Harry’s nose isn’t wrinkled in disgust and he isn’t putting distance between them. He’s actually reaching behind him to the side table and offering Louis a plate of breakfast. 

_Breakfast_.

“Oh my god.” Louis chokes on his tea and scrambles to put his mug down so he won’t spill it and burn his thighs and make a complete fool of himself. But Harry’s already sitting beside him, an arm tucked high behind his waist and a fist lightly punching his back. He’s basically burping Louis like a baby and Louis couldn’t be more mortified as he coughs into the clammy skin of his own arm.

So he’s hungover and Harry’s taking care of him. Not exactly the best environment for telling Harry he likes him, then. 

_& &&_

“Louis? Everything all right?”

Louis sinks deeper into the tub, the lukewarm water sloshing about violently, and pinches his eyes shut. Harry’s left him alone for thirty minutes but it still hasn’t been long enough for Louis to recover from the fact that he almost lost all his cool within five minutes of seeing Harry this morning. How is Harry supposed to reconcile a hungover Louis who can’t get his shit together with a Louis who still doesn’t have much of his life in order but at least can wield his charm like armor? Like, those are things Louis literally has no control over right now. Not even the texts of encouragement from Zayn and Niall are enough to spur him on. He’s just right embarrassed and unable to function.

“I’m fine, almost done,” he remembers to reply, even if it’s through clenched teeth and he doesn’t mean a syllable. 

“Man U is about to play, so you might want to hurry.”

He contemplates languishing away in the bath but he probably owes at least his mum more than that. And Manchester United. He should at least die in an honourable way. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

_& &&_

Spots of heat remain on Louis’ face all afternoon. It’s all because of Harry, who took one look at him after he emerged from the bathroom, enveloped him in a warm hug and said into his ear, “Don’t they say it’s all about time with hangovers? You’ll feel better soon enough, Lou, don’t worry.” Harry _would_ think Louis feels like total shit over one too many beers but it’s really just an accumulation of all things. Of Harry’s presence, of his own inability to act normal, of his decision to get pissed on a day he discovered the reason why his chest always gets tight whenever Harry’s around. 

Louis can’t just unload all of that on Harry, though. It wouldn’t be fair. Forget all the bullshit Zayn spouted about him deserving to give himself a chance with Harry. Just forget it. He’s happy being Harry’s friend, he’s content having someone to watch the disaster that is Man U with and he’s absolutely fine the way everything is. Their relationship has evolved enough since last week, thank you very much. They can hang out outside of work now. They don’t need to get to a third stage — they’re not Pokemon.

So he lets Harry dote on him throughout the whole match, doesn’t even get onto him when he starts to babble incessantly about this blog his sister sent him a link to called Texts from Mittens and then pulls up all the pictures of Dusty that he can find. If Louis lets himself gravitate toward Harry it’s because it’s a lot more practical to sit close to him than to have him yell across the couch for Louis to hear. And it’s kind of nice to see Harry’s smile from up close, to be able to feel the worn denim of his tight jeans rasping against Louis’ own trackies. It opens up this wanting feeling in his gut, sure, but it’s a lot better than what he felt when all he could do was nervously pick at a loose thread on the hem of his jumper as Harry rambled on about his cat. 

He doesn’t dare move after the match is over and United has managed a win over the just as awful, if not more so, Spurs. He’s afraid if he does that Harry will deem Louis recovered and go back to his own place. He refuses to let something like that happen, so he dives for the remote that was long ago discarded on the other side of Harry’s body on the couch and says, very nonchalantly from where he’s strewn across Harry’s lap, “What do you want for dinner? I’m buying this time.”

He feels the rumbling laughter under him before Harry’s got his fingers digging into the hollows of Louis’ ribs, tickling him forcefully and sending the remote skittering onto the floor as Louis gasps in his hold and does absolutely nothing to make Harry stop.

He’s a mess. 

_& &&_

Later, Louis will wonder if he approached the situation as carefully as he should have.

“I should get going.” Harry’s voice floats up to Louis from the opposite end of the couch, where Harry’s head is propped up on his arms and his legs are tangled in the middle with Louis’ under a blanket. “Gotta be up early to record.”

“Wow, what a pop star thing to say,” Louis teases, nudging his socked feet in between Harry’s calves. He’s been trying not to think about how close they’ve been all day but he can’t just ignore all the warmth Harry’s exuding either. He’s a nice little furnace and Louis’ always been prone to the cold. 

Harry’s laugh is muffled by his sleeve but Louis knows the outlines of his smile all too well by now. “You wouldn’t like me if I weren’t one.”

“That’s probably true.”

“ _Heyyyy_.” 

“Your hair only does so much for me, Curly.” Louis nods seriously, ignoring the scowl Harry has now turned his way. “It’s the whole picture, thick as honey voice included, that really does me in, you know. I wouldn’t be able to take you seriously otherwise.”

“Well maybe you aren’t cutting it for me either.”

“That doesn’t really matter to me, though. I’m the behind the scenes guy who writes the words you sing and then dips out when you go to record. You know, that thing you’re doing tomorrow.”

He’s met with an even deeper frown and Louis has no choice but to laugh it all off. It’s almost impossible to hold up any kind of ruse in the presence of Harry Styles. He’s figured out exactly how to get to Louis and Louis, though he should be bothered, wouldn't have it any other way.

“You’re not so bad, Harry,” he tells him, sitting up to pat the blanket where he thinks Harry’s leg is. Harry jerks under the touch but Louis keeps going with, “You’ve brought so much light into my life.”

Sheer delight wins over Harry’s face and Louis’ so mesmerized by the brightness of this silly oaf of a twenty-one year old that he hardly notices being pulled to his feet and into a hug. It’s only once his face is smashed into Harry’s shoulder and one of Harry’s hands has guided Louis arm to wrap around his waist that it all clicks: _Harry is really touching you right now, his nose is against your ear,_ your _hands are almost on his bum oh my god_. 

“I knew you liked me,” Harry mumbles, and Louis almost chokes on the fabric under his mouth. Now would be the perfect opportunity. It’s the best opening he could ever hope for. He should just go for it, consequences be damned. 

But he thinks about it for so long that Harry pulls away with a ruffle of Louis’ hair and a squeeze of his biceps. “You’ll come watch me record some time, right?”

Louis follows him to the door in a haze, blinking away the moment like it never happened. But he doesn’t want to forget the way he fit against Harry, the shiver Harry’s whisper sent down his spine. All of that felt right, so how is it that Harry’s walking away like it didn’t matter?

“Harry?” he prompts, once Harry’s got on his coat and his boots and is wrapping his scarf around his neck. 

He looks confused, probably because, Louis realizes, he never answered the question about coming to the studio. But this is more important and he kind of wishes Niall and Zayn were here to watch him take control of the situation for once. 

“Yeah?”

“Um…” Right, words. He needs to use those. It’s just that sliding his toe along the linoleum of his foyer is a lot more appealing than — oh, fuck it. “Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Before you go.”

Harry lets go of his scarf, an eyebrow arching up as he stares Louis down. “Okay.”

But then Louis’ heartbeat kicks up twofold, probably high enough to worry any sane doctor, and his palms start sweating. His cheeks warm up too, just for the hell of it, and his throat goes dry and the only noise he can make is the embarrassing squeak that happens when he locks his gaze with Harry.

And, like, then Harry’s almost laughing, amusement colouring his voice when he asks, “Louis, what is it?”

Louis doesn’t want this to be a joke, though. He wants this to be real, for Harry to take him seriously, and he’s pretty sure the only way to make his thoughts known is to act. So he grasps the front of Harry’s coat in trembling hands, pulls himself up onto his toes and pushes their lips together.

Harry doesn’t laugh much after that. It extinguishes on the pillow of Louis’ lips as he wraps his huge hands around Louis’ hipbones and keeps him in place, straining forward on the balls of his feet. They didn’t come together in the smoothest way, and Louis finds himself encountering way more tongue than should be acceptable for a first kiss, but neither of them stops. They just stand there together, hardly breaking apart for air and smiling against each other’s lips. 

Once Louis’ pretty sure he has no more balance to keep himself that tall, he pulls away from Harry with a final peck and drops to his heels. The giggle that bubbles out of him would be embarrassing in any other moment, like if anyone but Harry was around to witness it. But as he steps back and rubs his warm cheeks with his sweaty palms, he comes to the conclusion that he probably wouldn’t mind making a fool of himself around Harry all the time.

“Right,” Louis laughs, clasping his hands together and knotting his fingers. Harry’s still just as flushed as Louis feels and Louis’ pretty proud of himself for putting the pink in Harry’s cheeks. 

Harry gapes at him, mouth opening and closing around a smile. Then he pulls his scarf off his neck, throws it over Louis’ head and draws him close again. “I like you too, Louis,” he whispers into the space between them, five inches and a distance that’s no longer insurmountable. But instead of going in for another kiss, Harry presses his lips to the corner of Louis’ mouth, whispers a goodbye and walks very calmly out of Louis’ flat, his scarf hanging off Louis’ shoulders.

Maybe Louis had assumed kissing Harry would be some kind of epic revelation. Fireworks, foot pops, a tingling sensation in every one of his limbs, that kind of thing. But he finds, as he locks the door with a very forlorn sigh and floats down to his room, that a slimy, unrefined first kiss probably isn’t all that bad. It just means they’ll have to try again. 

And for now, he’ll go to sleep with a smile on his face, excited to have a reason to show up at the studio next week.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do want this done by the new year, so I'm forcing myself to write as much as possible in the coming weeks. I hope you liked it! (shameless plug -- I'm [insideasinkingboat on tumblr](http://insideasinkingboat.tumblr.com))


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I burned the goddamn chicken to a crisp, Louis, what the hell else does it look like?” 
> 
> Louis tries not to wince at Harry’s shrieks. Doesn’t seem like he would take that too well. “You were doing fine a few minutes ago.”
> 
> “Yeah, but then I got distracted by that salad and I almost cut off my finger trying to slice cucumbers because I know you like those…” Louis is frozen in place by the fact that Harry remembers that. He had only ordered a salad for lunch that one time, right before they went to dinner last Friday, and he’d insisted on extra cucumbers but — 
> 
> His ribcage tightens. Harry is doing this for him. He wants Louis to feel good in his flat, and he’s _doing this for him_. He’s convinced he’s actually fucked everything up but, oh, he’s doing this so, so right.

 

Things between Louis and Harry are strained. Actually, that might be an understatement.

It shouldn’t surprise Louis. He hasn’t heard from Harry since he left Louis’ flat on Sunday and Louis hasn’t tried contacting the curly-haired giant himself either. He kind of just figured they needed a day to get used to whatever this new thing they have is — assuming there is something to adapt to, anyway. Zayn said it was all right, that Louis was the one to make the first move and therefore the ball was in Harry’s court, or some other silly metaphor like that. It was nerve-wracking to leave something so huge up to Harry’s discretion but he heeded the advice, if only because even Niall agreed. 

But it’s _Wednesday_. Not a single text has been sent his way and it’s making Louis want to tear his hair out. Harry’s been recording the album for days and the only updates Louis has got are from Liam, who stopped by early in the week to meet with Simon and didn’t leave until Harry was done for the evening. Fuck’s sake, Louis hasn’t gone this long without hearing from Harry since they first _met_. 

The longer Louis goes without talking to him, the more convinced he is that Harry’s had a change of heart. And if that’s true, he’s not sure he’ll be able to recover. 

“You’re being a drama queen again,” says Zayn, who’s back to drawing at the coffee table in Louis’ flat. Louis’ not even sure why he invited him. He’s not offered him a single shred of support the whole night.

“I am _not_.” He gets up to toss two bottles of beer in the bin and escape the oppressive atmosphere that inhabited his living room the moment Zayn walked in. 

Zayn’s voice follows him, though. There’s only so far Louis can go. “Don’t you think maybe he’s a little busy right now?”

“With what?” 

“I dunno, recording his album maybe?”

Louis snorts, banging the refrigerator shut and trudging back out with a fresh beer. Harry talked to Louis between sets during the X Factor tour. How is recording really any different? 

Huh.

Okay, maybe Louis _is_ being irrational. But he’s not going to let Zayn see that. “Doesn’t mean he can’t text me,” he insists, curling back up in the corner of the couch where Harry sat on Sunday. If he sniffs hard enough, he can almost catch the woodsy scent of Harry’s cologne lingering in the cushions. 

“So why don’t you do something about it?” 

“Like _what_? You told me it’s up to him now.”

Louis looks up in time to catch Zayn glaring at him hard enough to bore a hole through his skull. Who is he to be the indignant one, anyway? Louis is the one stuck on pause thanks to some shit advice, thank you very much. 

So he throws the nearest pillow at Zayn’s head. “What? That’s what you said!” 

Zayn’s reflexes are too fast for any damage to be wrought on his hair, unfortunately. “Well, now I’m saying to stop being a twat and go talk to him.”

“I can’t. That’s the whole point.”

“Why can’t you?”

“He doesn’t want me to.”

“ _Christ_.” Zayn slams his fancy pencil case onto the table, startling Louis and upending an empty bag of crisps. “Every crisis you call me over for is one you could easily solve if you just went with your _gut_ and didn’t overthink. Don’t you get tired of going in all these circles around everything you want?”

Louis blinks and picks at the seam of his joggers, confused about where Zayn’s frustration is coming from. He relies on his friends’ opinions too much, he knows that. He’s done it his whole life, even way back when he and Stan were toddling around playgrounds and Louis couldn’t decide whether he wanted to jump off the swing or not. But for Zayn to call him out on it and tack on that part about his insecurity — _oh_. Maybe he hadn’t thought about it before.

“Zayn —”

“You’re such a fucking idiot sometimes, man!” Zayn’s standing now, shoving his supplies into a canvas bag. “Like, is no one allowed to tell you they want you to write songs for them? ’Cause I don’t know if you remember, but when Simon’s people called you, you didn’t wanna believe them either. And now you’re working yourself up about the fact that Harry hasn’t _called_ when he explicitly told you that he liked you. How is that not enough for you?” 

“Zayn,” Louis tries again, but Zayn isn’t having any of it. He’s already stalking toward the door, his things only halfway gathered in his arms, and Louis wishes he could get him to stop.

Instead, Zayn says over him, “I can’t be the one to offer you reassurances all the damn time,” and then he’s gone, the words _I don’t want you to be_ dying on Louis’ tongue and a dropped pencil pouch losing its contents all over the linoleum.

Sighing, Louis buries his face in the arm of the couch and wonders when he lost his confidence.

_& &&_

Sleeping on it doesn’t do much for Louis but it does spur him to get in the shower, blow dry his hair and put on real clothes for the first time since last Friday — he’s still a nervous ball of anxiety, only now he’s wrapped up in the scarf Harry looped around his neck before he left. But he’s going to do it. He’s going to show up at the studio, sit in on Harry’s recording session and demand answers. 

Once he’s regained his composure.

After lunch.

_& &&_

Louis scans his badge at the studio entrance that afternoon, smiles at the receptionist, pulls his beanie down over his ears like he does every time he passes under the crack in the ceiling tiles that lets in a bit of a draught. It’s almost like any other day. 

Until he yanks open the door to the studio and the sound of Harry’s gravelly voice carves through all the noise in Louis’ head, rooting him to the ground. Harry is breathtaking behind the glass walls of the booth. His eyes are pinched shut, fingers anchored around headphones as he leans forward and croons into the mic. He takes deep, gulping breaths between lines, his diaphragm expanding visibly under the thin white t-shirt he wears, and he looks every inch a rockstar, all the way down to his leather boots and back up to the forest green scarf tying back his curls. 

Louis wants to immortalize this moment in his mind, every sinew in Harry’s arms in stark relief in the mental pictures he snaps. He hadn’t noticed before just how attractive Harry was. Like, he recognized his beauty, even when he told himself that Harry dressed like a pretentious little hipster and got tattoos just because they looked cool. 

But a recording Harry is a completely different type of Harry. He throws himself into every line, every word of the song hung up over the accompanying track like it’s the one that means the most to him. He’s so physical about it, his body swaying and his toes pointed inward and his muscles clenching underneath all his ink. It’s _hot_.

A deep pool of lust stirs up in Louis’ belly and he has to pull himself back from the edge before he dives right in. Unfortunately, he’s not quiet about it, a gasp falling from his lips as he blinks back into the present and fiddles with closing the door. It creaks loudly behind him, and that’s when Carl turns away from the soundboard with an unmistakeable scowl etched into his face.

“Sorry,” Louis whispers, inching farther into the room. The peace is already disturbed but he’s trying to retain at least a semblance of it. 

Harry stops singing, and when Louis looks up, he’s met with a twinkly, green-eyed gaze and a smile. Harry waves unabashedly, flapping one hand around as the other pulls the headphones onto his neck. Carl is muttering something about hating interruptions, but all Louis can focus on is the music ceasing and the way Harry’s exuberant “Hey, Lou!” rings through the speakers in the studio.

If this is how Harry reacts to Louis’ presence all the time, lit up and pink-cheeked, Louis’ not entirely sure how he even came up with the idea that Harry doesn’t like him _like that_. 

_& &&_

Of course the first words that tumble out of Louis’ mouth upon actually getting to speak to Harry without the rest of the production team around aren’t _How is the album coming along_ or _Are you hungry_. Those questions would be too normal, would indicate that maybe some teensy little part of Louis cared about Harry’s wellbeing.

No. Instead, his words are, “I thought you hated me,” and Louis immediately wishes he could take them back. It’s almost like he can see them, every letter spinning around in the heavy air between them right before they reach Harry’s ears, giving the impression that he could freeze them, corral them with his hands. But it’s too late and Harry —

Well, Harry, bless him, gives a braying laugh that reverberates off the glass wall of the recording booth. He doesn’t look affronted at all. In fact, be looks serene, dimples popping up on his face and wide lips setting in a tender smile.

Louis would be an idiot not to take at least a smidgen of comfort in that reaction.

“What made you think _that_?”

“Um…” Louis drops his hand from his mouth and latches it onto the back of his neck, rubs at the overheated skin under his scarf. _Harry’s_ scarf, that is. He’s being sentimental about their whole — whatever, _already_. “You know, I didn’t hear from you and I thought maybe that you thought I went too far. And, like, yeah, you’re busy, so it’s stupid — I know that — but I was just wondering.” 

When he looks at Harry, there’s a vertical line between his eyebrows where the skin has folded up in concern, and it takes every ounce of self control Louis has left for him to clamp down on the urge to reach forward and smooth it out. He’s not sure Harry wants that from him, even though he can remember with startling clarity the way Harry clung to him at the door less than a week ago.

But then Harry’s laughing again and inching a little closer and saying, “I don’t think there was anything wrong with kissing you.”

Louis gasps. This is what he’s wanted to hear _all week_. But hopefully it doesn’t show on his face that Harry’s basically just injected light into every dark space that’s been crowding Louis’ mind.

“Were you really that worried?”

Busted.

“No.”

“Because I thought I made it abundantly clear,” Harry’s words slow even more as he drops a hand casually, like the touch doesn’t set a single one of his nerve endings alight, on Louis’ neck, “when I left my scarf with you.”

Louis can’t help the way his face heats up. He shouldn’t have worn it. He should have kept the stupid scarf safe in the confines of his room, tucked away in the corner of the bedside table where he could ignore it. He should have just waited, let Harry come to _him_ and not played right into his hands. 

“So it was all some schoolboy ploy?” he asks, saving face and wondering why he let himself take Zayn’s advice again. Way to be desperate, Tommo. “You leaving your scarf — that was bait for me to come find you and give it back?”

“Yep!” Mischief glints in Harry’s eyes and the closer he gets, his fingers inching dangerously toward the collar of Louis’ jumper, the easier it is for Louis to see just how stupid he’s been, letting himself get roped in by Harry fucking Styles in such a predictable way. He probably thinks Louis is easy, that he never plays hard to get. “It just took you a little longer than I expected.”

“That’s not fair.” Louis’ hands are still by his side, twitching at their proximity, but he leans back into the warmth of Harry’s touch, his neck tilting up to make better eye contact. He might be a _little_ easy. “I made the first move, so you should have made the second one.”

Harry laughs, “But you made it anyway,” and then he lifts his other hand to Louis’ opposite shoulder, sending Louis’ heart racing and his thoughts scattering like marbles around his head. They’re so close that if Harry dropped his head a few inches, their foreheads would press together and their noses would rub. They’d breathe each other’s exhalations and — 

Maybe it’s time Louis got out of this room. 

“I’m not making the third one,” he says, firm even though his chest has tightened up and his attention has focused almost solely on the weight of Harry’s hands on him. Every inch of his body _wants_ , but Louis isn’t going to be stupid here. He’s not going to let Harry in this effortlessly — all he has ever done is let people in easily and he’s so tired of giving so much only to get a portion of himself back.

So when he feels Harry’s nails biting through his layers, Louis forces himself to take a step away and cross his arms tightly in front of his chest. Harry’s mouth pops open in confusion, but Louis’ hands are shaking. They’ve got a long way to go before Louis will let Harry take whatever he wants. 

“I thought you wanted me to make the next move.” Harry’s done a good job of steeling his features again, all settled into something calm with one corner of his mouth lifted and both eyes bright. 

But Louis hasn’t had the same luck wrestling his own emotions down yet, so when he says, “I do. That’s just not the right one,” he sounds frazzled and trepidatious in ways he hasn’t around Harry. In ways he hasn’t in a long time, come to think of it.

“So what is the right one?”

He swallows, shrugs, looks away before he’s so overwhelmed that he bolts out of the room. “You tell me.”

Which is when the door opens, Julian and Carl and a new guy Louis’ never met before traipsing in with piping hot mugs of coffee in their hands, steam wafting into the air. Louis drops his gaze to the ground and stuffs his hands in his pockets as Harry shuffles back to presumably get to work. 

*“You staying, Tommo?” Julian calls to him, settling in behind the sound board, and Louis looks up to find Harry staring at him from the door of the recording booth, something like hope shining in his eyes. 

Louis clears his throat, mutters a totally unconvincing “sure” and shakes himself, goes to join the rest of the producers. But as Carl begins a nattering little speech about needing to finish these next songs by seven tonight, Harry darts forward, grabs Louis by the wrist and whispers, about as fervent as Louis has ever seen him, eyes wide and insistent, “Come to dinner with me later.”

The five points of contact burning into Louis’ skin blur out everything else around him. The need to run, the steady beat in his head telling him to stay away — all of that disappears. When he meets Harry’s gaze, it’s _that_ sixth point that sends him teetering off the ledge he’s been on since Harry tried to kiss him. 

“Okay,” he finally whispers back, and when Harry releases him after a squeeze and a grin, Louis knows there’s no way this thing with Harry Styles, whatever it is, will be easy.

_& &&_

They’ve done this dance before. Having a meal, making mindless conversation — they did it last Friday, and it was perfect. Louis didn’t read too much into it as he sat across from a beaming, absolutely charming Harry. And although he shook through it at times, fingers clasped too tight around a goblet of water or thighs pressed flush against his chair so he could try to chill the fuck out, he survived. He even made it through a movie night and that’s something he’s still proud of (as long as he ignores the part where it sent him into a bit of a spiral). 

This time round, though, he’s afraid dinner might not be as painless. Before, it was just co-workers getting to know each other. There’s so much boiling beneath the surface of their interactions now, so many things at stake that Louis can’t put his finger on a single one of them. There’s tension that ratchets up a level every time they lock gazes through the glass of the booth, and it leaves Louis gnawing his bottom lip into a swollen mess, each layer he’d come in wearing shed onto the floor by the couch and a persistent line of sweat dotting his hairline. 

And if this is how he feels when they’re not even _speaking_ , full of nervous energy and aching to wedge his body between Harry and the goddamn microphone he’s been _all over,_ how is Louis supposed to retain any form of self control once Harry’s done recording for the night and all his focus is on Louis? 

Honestly, he almost wants to avoid the entire thing. This level of _feeling_ , it’s not something he’s used to. He can’t even tell if it’s lust or something more, and that scares the shit out of him. Because at least if he knew it was just about wanting to fuck Harry, it would be easy enough to take care of. Wine and dine, fuck and chuck, the kind of sick rhymes all uni students abide by. 

But when the idea of a one night stand floats through his head, his heart rate jacks up and his palms start to feel clammy. Maybe Zayn is right about the whole “going in circles around the things he wants” thing, but there’s a reason Louis doesn’t let himself near emotions. He is _not ready for this_.

He’s so _not ready_ that he works himself into a state and doesn’t even notice Harry wrapping up his session until the new producer, John, punches Louis in the shoulder so he’ll budge up and “off the mixer already, Louis. You’re messing with our sound.”

Harry watches Louis from behind the glass with a tilted head and furrowed brow as he hangs up his headphones, and Louis ducks and swallows hard over the huge knot in his throat. He’s not sure how he’s ever going to calm down enough to look Harry in the eyes and have dinner with him. 

What a shame that he has to do it _now_ , before he’s even figured anything out.

“All right, Lou?” 

Louis jerks his head up from where he’s been faffing about trying to get his coat to sit at the right spot on his shoulders when Harry comes over to him ten minutes later. He’s twisting his fingers around in his headscarf, readjusting it for what’s probably the thirtieth time since Louis first walked in the door, and Louis can’t tell if the butterflies in his stomach are from nerves or fear. Whatever it is, he could laugh at himself for being this way, so stupidly smitten and without a clear way out.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he stammers, even though he can tell from the darkness in Harry’s eyes that he hardly believes him. It’s too bad he’s always been bad at poker faces. Still, he clasps both his hands together noisily and pastes on the widest grin Harry has ever seen from him. “Everything is just peachy.”

He has to commend Harry for the way he handles the very obvious display of insincerity Louis has just put on. He doesn’t look angry when he mumbles, “Oh, okay,” just unsure. Louis can’t blame him. He’s not exactly given Harry reason to smile, has he? 

“You looked kind of like you didn’t want to be here, before,” Harry tacks on as an after-thought, words staggered as if it hurts him to even suggest such a thing.  

Louis feels like an idiot. 

“No,” he blurts, face hot and mind spinning through a catalogue of ways to stop their date from imploding before it’s even begun. He touches a hand to Harry’s elbow, letting it linger two seconds too long as he yanks his beanie down over his fringe. Harry’s eyes flit between Louis’ touch and his face, suspiciousness poorly concealed, and Louis really does feel awful for putting that look there. 

He taps a quick little rhythm on Harry’s skin before he pulls away, hoping he can disarm him with the truth. “Just nervous, is all.”

And it works, if Harry’s brightening gaze and his sickeningly sweet, “You’ve nothing to be nervous of, Louis,” is anything to go by.

Louis shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe just a bit.”

“I should be the nervous one,” Harry says, with a corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

Louis has a hard time believing that. “You shouldn’t be.”

“Let’s agree to disagree?”

And with Harry finally hopeful again, features wide open in the middle of the studio, who is Louis to deny him that? Honestly, he wants that sense of security for himself, no matter how false it might be. “Sure, mate. We can do that.”

“Shall we, then?” 

There’s no way Louis could say no _now_.

_& &&_

They go to the same Italian place from last week because apparently Harry is a little sentimental like that. Something about how he really wished the last time had been a date and he would hate to miss the chance to make this place a _thing_ for them. Like one of their quirks, a frequent haunt that’s tied to all the sentimentality that comes with being in a relationship. 

Much as it scares Louis, this permanent reminder of the beginning, he thinks it might be nice to have it. Maybe he’s just as sentimental as Harry is. Or maybe he just wants to be, for Harry’s sake. 

They get the same table — per Harry’s request, he’s straight out of a romance novel, this guy — and Harry pulls Louis’ seat out for him, almost tripping over his boots in his haste to beat Louis to the chair. Louis would blush if he weren’t so amused by Harry’s persistent chivalry. 

“You know I’m not a damsel in distress, right?” Louis teases once the hostess has walked away and Harry has draped his coat over the back of his chair.

Harry snaps his head up from his lap, where he’s fiddling with his serviette, and _smirks_. “I beg to differ.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe not on the damsel part,” he says, tilting his head back and forth as if he’s weighing Louis’ very prominent masculinity. “But on the distress part.”

Louis kicks him in the shin because he will not tolerate any aspersions cast on his character, thank you very much. 

Harry yelps, grabbing for his leg immediately and jarring the whole table in the process, his knee jerking up and a salad fork skittering along the tablecloth. 

“Oi, we are in a classy establishment,” Louis hisses, struggling to keep laughter from breaking past his lips and undermining his whole annoyed act. There’s already a smile tugging his mouth, he doesn’t need to give Harry any more fodder.

“Don’t kick me, then.”

“Then don’t call me a ninny.”

Harry’s jaw drops wide and Louis straightens up _fast_ , the image of Harry taking a dick in his mouth springing into his brain at the most inappropriate moment. Shit, is this how he’s going to react to everything Harry does now that they’re going on dates? 

_Date_ , he reminds himself. This is just one date. No telling how it will go, so he needs to stop that line of thought _now._

He’s focusing so hard on erasing the thought that he only catches the tail-end of Harry saying, “A ninny.”

“What?”

“I didn’t call you that. I was just teasing, lighten up.” Harry huffs and his cheeks swell up like a puffer fish. 

“Are we fighting already?”

“You’ve been ‘fighting’ me since we met.”

“No, I haven’t!”

“Pfft, please.”

Louis pouts.

“I think I liked you better when you were scared of me.”

“What, you don’t like challenges, Styles?”

Playfulness or something like it twinkles in the light green of Harry’s eyes. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Maybe it’s the way Harry says it, voice gruff and oh so suggestive, or the way he punctuates the sentence with a nudge of his boot against Louis’ Vans, that has Louis blushing. Whatever it is, he has to avert his gaze and ignore how remarkably willing Harry is to take Louis on. 

After a few seconds, he looks back with seriousness in his eyes and asks, “You ready to pay for a five-course meal?” 

Harry’s answering grin and _anything for my distressed prince_ prompts a throat-burning snort from Louis just as a waiter approaches for their drink orders. 

_& &&_

Louis doesn’t thrust five courses upon Harry’s bank account, but he does insist on a plate of tiramisu that Louis does not agree to share. And when they leave, Louis snatches Harry’s after dinner mint and tosses the wrapper at him with a wink and cheeky smirk. Harry shakes his head, a smile of his own on his face. 

It’s a wonder he doesn’t call Louis out for being a selfish prat.

He does, however, nudge Louis when his tummy grumbles as it digests his meal on their walk back to the studio and say, “You still hungry? I’m sure they’ll whip you up something fast for being such a great customer tonight.”

He says it calmly, not a hint of wryness twitching across his features in the low light of the street lamps. But Louis is no fool. “I could probably use a midnight snack,” and spins on his heel, already trekking back up the street as fast as his legs will take him in the cold.

Harry squawks behind him. Louis is having too much fun to stop. He’s pretty sure all hundred or so muscles in his face are contracting with his goddam smile.

Harry does catch up to him, though, long legs and heeled boots quick on the pavement. “I’ll fund that for you, if you want.”

“I gotta milk this for all it’s worth, don’t I?”

“Can’t see a flaw in that logic.” Harry shrugs in his broad-shouldered coat and ends up crossing his steps and brushing Louis’ side with the movement. 

Teasing, “You trying to put moves on me, Styles?” Louis finally brings them to a halt three doors down from the restaurant, where a cafe sits half-empty and dimly lit. Harry’s finally looking at Louis like — well, kind of like he’s never found anyone funnier than Louis.

Which is funny in itself. Harry’s got the kind of humor where he entertains Louis and charms waiters. It’s so big and maybe half as sarcastic as Louis’ and —

When Harry just nods in response, Louis says, “You’re funny. I like that,” and starts back toward the studio.

This time Harry’s laughter follows him for a few more steps, like he’s waiting to catch up so he can sort through his thoughts or something of the kind. Louis revels in the silence as long as he can, trying not to let his brain run away with silly ideas of the future.

It’s hard, though, when he’s gathered so much evidence tonight that makes him think maybe, just _maybe_ , he and Harry could be…something. 

The definite scares him.

“You still there?”

Louis blinks owlishly up at Harry, whose neck is tilted and forehead is puckered. “Huh?”

He draws a corner of his lip between his teeth, like he’s unsure how to proceed. 

And it hits Louis then, only then, that he’s not the only one nervous about going on this date. He’s just been so caught up in his own head, comparing what could be with what happened with Aiden, that he hadn’t stopped to consider that maybe Harry didn’t want to push Louis to make a decision about them either. That maybe he left him alone this week because he’s got demons of his own to deal with.

The feeling that’s been burrowing into his chest for weeks, the warm one that also feels bright all at once, threatens to take Louis over. It pushes through his veins and into his limbs, extends all the way to his gloved fingertips and angles his feet so that he can edge marginally closer to Harry, bask in his body heat.

“What were you saying before?” Louis asks, keeping his head down because he’s afraid that if he looks up Harry will see every inch of him reflected back in his eyes. 

Harry’s shoulders brush Louis in a shrug again, sending another jolt through Louis’ system as Harry mumbles, “’s not important.”

“Come _on_.” He lets himself elbow Harry, makes sure his emotions have subsided when he seeks out Harry’s gaze. “You said it once already.”

Harry refuses to meet his eyes. He sighs. “Was just wondering if you had as much fun as I did.”

“I’m still having fun, Harry.” The need to soothe him with a touch to the hand that’s been swinging between them arises in Louis, but he’s not sure where they are on that front yet. 

At least Harry seems to take some comfort in Louis’ tone. He glances over with a shimmer in his gaze and the beginnings of a dimple deepening in his cheek. The street lights allow Louis to catalogue every emotion that flickers over Harry’s features. They’re all good ones. “You are?”

“Of course I am.” 

“Good, me too.” He smiles in earnest and Louis revels in the tingling sensation in his stomach, nothing like the bowel movements that annoyed him mere minutes ago. 

He can’t help the grin he tosses back. And, later, when Harry opens the door for him and ushers him through with a hand on the small of his back, Louis files away yet another piece of evidence in Harry’s favor.

_& &&_

Logically, Louis should have had a lie-in Friday morning. He should have drawn a bath, soaked for an hour and maybe called his mum because he’s been a terrible son and brother for the last two months. He could have gone shopping for a new mattress because he still needs one of those. 

But instead he bolts upright in his bed at eight o’clock and cannot shut off his brain. It’s overflowing with words, music, melodies that he needs to write down or tinker with on his guitar. Even though it’s been two solid months of waking up and doing the same thing for Harry's record, Louis actually welcomes the development. He can’t remember the last time it came so naturally.

So he indulges his imagination because it feels so good to create songs just for the hell of it, just because he can and because he no longer has Simon or Julian to report to with progress.

The notebook he’d almost filled out when he was working with Harry doesn’t hold up against the onslaught of shit Louis writes down that day. Nor do the strings of his guitar, which protest the constant strain he puts on them. His pack of rainbow pencils dwindles down to just two fresh ones and he’ll have to go find a new set by the end of the evening if he doesn’t slow down, but he _loves this_.

It’s not until the sun has set and his stomach is writhing in pain that Louis’ energy flags and his creativity runs out. He misses it instantly — there’s nothing quite like the steady thrum of chords and lyrics piecing themselves together under the tip of his pencil. Smooth and resonant, all-consuming. He wishes he could feel that everyday.

Maybe he can. Maybe if he lets himself accept Harry as _someone_ in his life, maybe it’ll make everything so much easier. Maybe Zayn was right and Louis _is_ allowed to be enchanted by headscarves and heeled boots, by a deep voice and a boy who sometimes seems to think he isn’t good enough.

When Louis finally checks his mobile, abandoned all day on his nightstand, he has about six messages from Harry, calls from Niall and emails Liam and Simon, and the first thing he does is pull up his favorites and dial Zayn’s number.

Probably time he let Zayn rub it in his face just how right he was. He’d appreciate that — and hopefully forgive Louis for being a twat in the first place.

_& &&_

****_styles h_  
_21:23_  
louisssssss

 ****_me_  
_21:29_  
whatcha want punk

 ****_styles h_  
_21:31_  
:(

 ****_me_  
_21:32_  
kidding, kidding. hey

 ****_styles h_  
_21:34_  
what are you doinggg

 ****_me_  
_21:35_  
u drunk??

 ****_styles h_  
_21:35_  
WHAT? no why?

 ****_me_  
_21:37_  
the extra letters

 ****_styles h_  
_21:38_  
ohhh. well no i only got home like 10 mins ago so that would be impossible

 ****_me_  
_21:40_  
you’re a stick, i find that hard to believe

 ****_styles h_  
_21:41_  
heyyyyy

 ****_me_  
_21:41_  
:P

 ****_styles h_  
_21:42_  
did you have a good day?

 ****_me_  
_21:44_  
really good yeah. you should see my notebook

 ****_styles h_  
_21:45_  
:) lots of writing?

 ****_me_  
_21:46_  
enough for my hand to be cramping right now

 ****_styles h_  
_21:47_  
awww you poor baby

 ****_me_  
_21:48_  
:| not funny

 ****_styles h_  
_21:49_  
not what you said last niiight

 ****_me_  
_21:51_  
you’re a cheeky little bastard aren’t you?

 ****_styles h_  
_21:52_  
;)

 ****_me_  
_21:53_  
i don’t even like you

 ****_styles h_  
_21:54_  
i can see your nose from hear, pinocchio 

 ****_me_  
_21:55_  
you did not just reference disney

 ****_styles h_  
_21:56_  
you’re right, i didn’t. i refd the italian bloke who created him

 ****_me_  
_21:59_  
we are not doing this

 ****_styles h_  
_22:00_  
LOUIS

 ****_me_  
_22:01_  
WHAT

 ****_styles h_  
_22:01_  
i just had a really good time last night

 ****_me_  
_22:07_  
that’s what she said

 ****_styles h_  
_22:08_  
:(

 ****_me_  
_22:16_  
i did too harry

 ****_styles h_  
_22:18_  
would you like to have another date with me, then

 ****_me_  
_22:20_  
depends

 ****_styles h_  
_22:20_  
on what/???

 ****_me_  
_22:21_  
what you have in mind

 ****_styles h_  
_22:22_  
dinner. you. my flat. tomorrow.

 ****_me_  
_22:22_  
YOU’RE GOING TO EAT ME FOR DINNER?!??!

 ****_styles h_  
_22:23_  
shit no not what i meant

Louis’ mobile buzzes to life as he’s typing a response back and he almost drops it in the tub. He really shouldn’t operate this thing while he’s bathing.

Anyway, Harry’s calling and Louis’ naked but he answers him anyway.

“Missed my voice, Harold?”

“That wasn’t what I meant!”

He laughs and sits up as straight as he can, afraid his mobile will slip through his fingers if he doesn’t prop his elbow up on the tub ledge. “’s all right, I know what you meant.”

Harry lets out a sigh that whooshes through the speaker. Louis can imagine him leaning against a wall in his flat, eyes closed, head tipped back and a hand nervously scratching under his headscarf. It’s endearing. 

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I was being forward or something like that, because I really didn’t mean it that way —”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts, tone soft and his cheeks burning — and not from the steam that’s still billowing up from the surface of the water. This _boy_. “I know you didn’t. But I can handle sexual innuendos, all right? I’m not, like — my sensibilities aren’t offended or anything. It’s all right.”

“Good.” 

Smiling again, Louis relaxes against the bath pillow Niall bought him as a gag gift for his birthday and lets his eyelids flutter shut. Harry’s breath is gentle in his ear, his bath is warm and he could probably fall asleep just like this. 

It blows his mind a little bit just how comfortable the idea of Harry and everything he brings to Louis’ life has made him. He’s just so different, goofy and considerate in ways Aiden never was, and Louis wants to wallow in it as much as he can.

“So what do you say?”

Louis hums. “To another date?”

“Yes.”

“I say okay.”

Harry’s answering laugh rings in his ear the rest of the night.

_& &&_

Something is wrong. Louis can tell from the moment he walks through the unlocked door that something has gone unmistakably, irreparably wrong.

“In the kitchen!” Harry calls, high-pitched and panicky, nothing like the Harry whose deep, smooth voice is colouring an album Louis wrote. All Louis can smell is charred chicken, so Harry’s tone doesn’t alarm him, really. He’s used to that smell filling up his own flat whenever he attempts to cook. But Harry sounds like a banshee, like everything he’s tried so hard to get right has gone tits up and there’s no going back.

It makes him smile, just how dramatic he’s being about some burnt chicken. They’ll get on just fine.

Harry’s flailing around the kitchen when Louis joins him, his headscarf pushed up on his curls and one long arm snaking over to the knife he has balanced on the edge of the sink. 

“Hi.” He glances over his shoulder at Louis. Louis watches as his panic switches over to delight, like a traffic light changes to green from red. The smoking pan is momentarily forgotten. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“I bet.” Louis sets his scarf and beanie hastily on an open counter and acts on instinct. He takes the knife gently out of Harry’s hands, sets it on a wood block and turns back to him with a smile. Harry’s eyes actually do look sore, puffy and dark right under his bottom lids, but Louis chooses to ignore that in favor of pointing at the hob. “Need some help?”

Harry turns the fire down, barely taking his eyes off Louis to do so. “You cook?”

Snorting, Louis hands Harry a cup of tap water. He watches him pour it into the sizzling pan. “Only in theory.”

“Figures.”

“Hey!”

Harry turns to face Louis completely, his arms crossed loosely in front of his chest and his bum leaned against the counter. Louis would kiss the smirk off his face if it weren’t for the fact that they haven’t actually kissed since last Sunday. Hopefully they’ll get there — Harry’s threadbare, red-checked shirt looks like it would be soft under Louis’ fingers. 

“Didn’t have much when I came to take care of you.”

Louis’ eyes shoot up from where they were raking over Harry’s chest. So maybe being broke has had its pitfalls. “I buy what I need.”

“So Yorkshire tea, jammie dodgers and Weetabix?”

“And _milk_!”

“Of course.”

“That’s all the major food groups.”

“Oh, yeah, who needs protein.” He waves Louis off, huge smirk undermining his criticism of Louis’ diet. Honestly, if it were anyone else, Louis would probably deck him. Not that he physically knows how to throw a punch, but he would if he could. 

“Takeaway does that for me, din’t ya know?” Louis leans against the opposite counter but not without touching the tip of Harry’s boot with his own Vans first. A sudden urge to do that overcomes him and he just does it. “Anyway, you sure got busy looking through my cupboards. Not very polite for a house guest, is it?”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “You brought it on yourself, Lou.”

“Oi, I beg to differ!”

“Send help, ’s what you sent. How else was I supposed to take that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you could have read it literally, maybe.” 

“Why send when I can deliver?” An impressive eyebrow wag accompanies his words. Clever man, this one. It’s best Louis learn to ignore innuendos.

“Why don’t you go back to cooking?” he scoffs, and retires to the lounge before he can further incriminate himself. He hadn’t observed the room much when he was here last week anyway.

Not much has changed except for the pair of drapes hanging in front of the sliding glass door that leads out to the balcony. They’re lightweight and soft, pattern a blue geometric shape that adds a vibrant pop to the mostly dark space. Harry would be the kind of bloke that takes interior design seriously, very neat when it comes to his clothing choices and prim in the way he eats with his utensils always held at correct angles. 

Shit, even the floor-to-ceiling bookcase is properly arranged in alphabetical order. Louis should have seen it coming. 

Louis climbs the step-stool to get a look at each shelf, nosy bugger that he is. He really had no room getting onto Harry for doing the same in his own flat, honestly. 

The top two shelves house trophies and framed certificates. Most improved for a youth football league, Cheshire. First place in a talent contest, ages eight to ten. Participation in a community play, Holmes Chapel Centre. Battle of the Bands hardware for White Eskimo, 2009. Upon further inspection Louis notices that the frames also hold knick knacks like concert tickets and film stubs. Toy Story 2, a Harry Potter collage, Iron Man. Take That, Coldplay, Leeds Fest. And a familiar ticket for a concert Louis himself saw years ago, seventeen and still sure he was straight. 

He smiles. What a time in his life.

“You saw the Script?” he calls, fingers sliding over the picture of Harry standing in front of a Script poster at the O2 Apollo with some mates. Judging from the springiness of his curls and the fat in his cheeks, Harry couldn’t have been more than fifteen. 

“Yeah!” Harry shouts, nearly drowned out by the sizzling in the kitchen. “Great group, fun times. ‘Breakeven’ was my jam.”

Dork. Louis is helplessly endeared. 

“I was at that concert, actually. It was amazing, you’re right.”

“You were? Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“Must be fate.”

Louis chooses not to give too much importance to the lurch his heart gives at Harry’s words. He climbs down the stool instead, skims his eyes over the DVD collection that Harry’s organized by genre. Telly programmes on the left, the remaining cases switching over to action, comedy, fantasy and romance in turn.

He uses the genre system for the next two shelves of CDs as well, everything from Britney Spears to Van Halen and movie scores. There’s a noted distinction between classic rock and pop, though, the former thicker than the latter. That explains a lot about the different nuances he brings into the studio.

Books claim the lower shelves. Old texts from Harry’s abandoned foray into higher education stand proudly on the cherrywood, nestled amongst battered copies of novels and songbooks alike. Louis realises as he thumbs through a thick anthology of British literature that he never actually asked Harry what he was studying before the X Factor. He’d assumed it was music, but there’s a distinct lack of that topic in the bookcase. A wide variety of subjects abounds instead. Maybe he’d been one of those blokes who floated around different departments, looking for somewhere to fit in.

How’d he even decide to be a singer, then? 

Sighing, Louis slides the book back into its rightful spot and jumps down to the floor. He’s disappointed in his research of Harry’s life. He’ll have to remedy that. 

For now he’ll have to be okay with getting a read of Harry by looking at the careful arrangement of accent colours throughout the lounge. Interior decor is supposed to be good for that kind of thing — that’s what Lottie likes to say, anyway. She probably gets that from her romance novels but Louis will take her word for it. She’s better-versed in that department sadly enough.

It tells him Harry is level-headed. Maybe a tad anal retentive when it comes to cleaning up and placing elegant objects delicately on display. But he looks to be for the most part a complete opposite of Louis’ penchant for chaos. Seems down to earth, calculating, peacef —

“OH, BUGGERING — FUCK _ME_!”

Right. He’d forgot the part where Harry was screaming bloody murder when Louis first walked in the flat.

Louis dashes into the kitchen. Nonsense shouts fill the air, Harry cursing the entire world as he drops a rag on top of the pan he’s using to make chicken and tries to unstick the melting handle of a spatula from the hob with bare fingers. He mutters _ouches_ under his breath but doesn’t seem to realize that he is actually _touching burning plastic_.

“Harry,” Louis tries to get in over the din of Harry’s puttering, “turn the fire off, mate.” 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” he yelps, and releases his grip of the spatula to stick his burnt fingers in his mouth.

“Hey, it’s all right!” He pokes his arm around Harry’s body and flips off the fire switch. “What happened?”

“I burned the goddamn chicken to a _crisp_ , Louis, what the hell else does it look like?” 

Louis tries not to wince at Harry’s shrieks. Doesn’t seem like he would take that too well. “You were doing fine a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, but then I got distracted by that salad and I almost cut off my finger trying to slice cucumbers because I know you like those…” Louis is frozen in place by the fact that Harry remembers that. He had only ordered a salad for lunch that one time, right before they went to dinner last Friday, and he’d insisted on extra cucumbers but — 

His ribcage tightens. Harry is doing this for him. He wants Louis to feel good in his _flat_ , and he’s _doing this for him_. He’s convinced he’s actually fucked everything up but, oh, he’s doing this so, so right. 

With a soft touch, Louis draws Harry’s hand away from his lips and dusts off the shoulders of his shirt. It’s smooth, the fabric probably way too thin to put up much of a fight against a chill. But it’s charming, reminds Louis that Harry’s from a world far removed from the glitz and glamour of the music business.

He hopes the pressure never forces him to buckle and compromise every facet of the character Louis has become quite attached to.

“It’s all right, Harry,” he says, words firm as he gently rubs Harry’s shoulders. His cheeks have paled and his chest has stopped heaving, but his sunken eyes are frantically following Louis’ motions. Louis’ not sure what he’s doing but he _is_ sure he’s just stepped over a line they hadn’t yet dared cross. “You’re tired, I get it. Shit happens. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

Louis chuckles quietly, gives Harry a pat before he steps back. Now _his_ heart is hammering. “No, I’m not. Not much for home cooking anyway. As you know.”

A tiny smile pulls at Harry’s lips as he digs the back of his knuckle into an eye. He must be knackered — spending the majority of the last 48 hours in the studio can’t have been easy. It seems the after effects of the extraordinary amounts of caffeine he’s undoubtedly consumed are finally setting in.

Louis appreciates Harry’s enthusiasm for this dinner. He could have cancelled, sent Louis a text that he was too tired to make a good meal and Louis would have understood. He should probably offer to go home, let Harry rest. They could try again tomorrow.

But Louis has so many things he wants to talk to Harry about. He unconsciously made a list of questions when he was snooping — what did he study, what’s his favorite film, how many of those books has he actually read. He’s not ready to go back to his dingy flat, broken guitar picks and a messy stack of notepads not as appealing as the clean, modern lines of Harry’s burgeoning world.

“We can get some takeaway,” he offers, smiling widely up at Harry’s tired eyes. “Whatever you want. I’m not picky.”

Harry seems to appreciate that, squeezes Louis’ bicep on his way to a drawer full of restaurant menus. Louis does his best to conceal the blush that takes over his skin at the caress — but he’s starting to think he won’t need to feel embarrassed around Harry much longer.

_& &&_

They order Malaysian food from a place round the block and sit at the kitchen bar with their knees tucked together. Louis steals pieces of cucumbers from Harry’s chicken skewers and dips his prawns in Harry’s peanut sauce, and Harry doesn’t say anything to discourage him. He just looks over at him with a smile and exaggeratedly scrapes his discarded vegetables onto Louis’ plate.

He’s too nice. Plus he looks soft, his eyes drooping as Louis regales him with stories of his childhood, anecdotes that involve his and Stan’s short-lived obsession with skateboarding through the Donny town centre, much to the dismay of families who had to push their babies in buggies over the already tricky pavers. Not once does he tell Louis to stuff it. Granted, he doesn’t say much in return, for a change, but Louis doesn’t even mind. He just enjoys Harry’s attention. 

When they finish, Louis does the washing up. It’s a surprise to both of them when he offers, but Harry’s been worked to the bone and he’s already had to clean up the disaster that was his failed attempt at dinner. It’s the least Louis can do. 

He meets Harry on the couch, where he’s valiantly watching telly with wide-open eyes and rigid posture. The effort he’s putting into staying awake warms Louis’ insides.

“Wanna watch Doctor Who?” Harry asks, and he’s so hopeful that Louis couldn’t possibly turn him down. 

He settles on the couch, putting enough space between them to be comfortable and not awkward. He could reach for Harry’s hand whenever he wants, entangle their fingers, sulk in the way life thrums through his palm. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t move much, actually, not until Harry heaves a yawn and stretches his arm along the top of the couch. Louis can’t stop laughing, and Harry turns to him with a shocked expression. “What is so funny?”

“You’re so — fuck, you’re so innocent sometimes,” he gasps.

“That’s not very nice.”

“That was just — God, Harry —” Louis coughs, waits for his laughter to subside before he continues. Harry’s face is still screwed up with confusion. “That was just such a classic move. The yawn and stretch thing.”

Harry pouts. “I didn’t try to grab your tits. I was legitimately stretching.”

“I know. That’s what’s so funny.”

“You’re a weirdo.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk.”

Harry’s bottom lip plumps out farther, redder and wetter as it goes, and it stirs something deep in Louis’ belly. He could snog him right now, push him down on the cushions, trail his fingers into his hair, tug on his headscarf until they’ve forgotten what they’re talking about. Harry probably wouldn’t even fight him. He can imagine the arm he’d secure around Louis’ waist, the hand he’d trail down Louis’ spine. Fuck, he wants to feel all that so badly.

But this is only their second date and Louis wants to do this right, goddamn it. He rushed into things with Aiden, young and wanting the experience more than anything else. Louis’ got that now — and then some. He’s sure Harry has too. 

So with a silent apology to his knob, he directs his thoughts to the Doctor and leans back into the couch. 

“Louis?” 

Louis, who’d actually got pretty invested in the episode in the twenty minutes that elapsed since they’d last exchanged words, struggles for a moment to pull himself back into the real world. The show’s too fantastical for him, he thinks. He was the same way with Merlin when it was on. 

“Yeah?”

A quiet kind of smile settles into Harry’s face the longer the silence between them stretches. Louis’ confused by it. Why’d Harry ask for him if he wasn’t going to add something more? 

He fidgets with the sleeves of his jumper, pulls them down over his hands before looking Harry right in the eyes and uttering a, “What is it?”

“D’ya wanna cuddle?”

The way he says it, nonchalant and slower than he usually speaks, makes it seem like he’s been thinking of ways to ask him for a cuddle for ages. The amount of happiness that ignites in Louis’ soul is embarrassing, and he has to fight back another blush when he realises he’s staring at Harry with a gaped mouth.

“Um…” He swallows hard. Of course he wants to step in with a yes immediately. The memory of Harry’s hands on him last week can only last him so long. It’s already starting to lose its shine. 

He’s being so stupid. This is what he wants. He needs to do better about just taking the initiative. Like Harry, tired Harry who widens his eyes on every blink but who wants to spend time with Louis enough that he refuses to fall victim to something as trivial as exhaustion.

So after taking a deep breath, Louis nods, toes off his Vans and goes for it. He folds his legs up on the couch and tucks himself easily into Harry’s side. “I like cuddles,” he whispers belatedly, twisting his fingers under the hem of his threadbare jumper. 

Harry huffs a laugh as he drops an arm around Louis’ shoulders, pulling him closer to the furnace that is his body. “Me too.”

The kiss he drops onto Louis’ head does nothing to calm his racing pulse. Louis’ already scared about how domestic tonight’s been; he doesn’t need to add more fuel to the fire. But he also doesn’t want to stop Harry from stroking his fingers down Louis’ upper arm, or from whispering commentary into Louis’ ears, or from just making Louis feel so _good_. 

“How’re you even still awake?” Louis mumbles when they start another episode. He’s looking up at Harry now, head tilted back against a strong shoulder and a hand picking distractedly at the loose buttons of Harry’s shirt.

Harry’s own fingers halt in their exploration of the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck as he rakes his gaze over to Louis lazily. “Like talking to you,” he says simply. 

Louis can deal with that.

They continue to talk quietly over the hush of the telly. Louis susses out of him the subject he tackled at uni (modern day drifting), the act he put on for that talent show (Hound Dog, costume and all), the three albums he’d take with him on a long road trip (Rumours, Love Actually, “Does a mixed CD count?”) and the one Disney movie he can’t live without (Lion King, “Simba’s got spunk—oh, bloody hell, you know what I mean.”). 

But once Harry’s words start coming slower, and once his hand stops halfway down Louis’ arm, Louis lets them drop into silence. He’s learned enough about Harry today. It’s nice to just sit there, watching mindless telly with a relaxed body beside him.

The digital clock on the cable box blinks 22:18 when Louis notices Harry’s finally fallen asleep. His mouth is cracked open, head leaned back against the couch and deep breaths tickling Louis’ scalp in constant, measured puffs. 

If he were a better man, he’d slip out as unnoticed as he can, let Harry sleep and call him in the morning. Or he’d wake him up, force him to bed and leave. But Louis’ actually a conflicted man-child who can’t fight the tenderness he feels for Harry. So he snuggles in, arranges the blanket over both their laps and watches BBC until he can’t anymore.

_& &&_

Louis really is making a habit of falling asleep on Harry’s couch. 

He jerks awake in the early morning, before the sun is due to rise. The telly is off—probably because Harry can afford one that’s energy saving—and— 

Well, they’re not sitting up anymore. They’re stretched alongside each other on the couch, Louis’ bum pressed into the back of the couch and his arm folded uncomfortably under his face. Harry, though, is worse off, mirroring Louis but with all six feet of him curled up. They’re close, knees locked together and fingers touching, crotches mere inches apart. 

Louis doesn’t dare move. He might startle Harry and send him sprawling to the floor if he did. 

After some internal debate, he fucks it all and tugs Harry close to him with a hand firm on his hip and his breath caught in his throat, afraid to let it go. Harry snuffles in his sleep, eyeballs moving beneath his lids, but once Louis’ nudged him onto his back and tucked himself into Harry’s neck, making as much of the space here as possible obviously, Harry has relaxed again. Chest steadily rising and falling, fingers twitching absently.

Louis drifts off again, but not before he thinks he feels Harry stroke the hand Louis has pressed on his stomach.

_& &&_

A few hours later, Louis’ roused by the steady swipe of Harry’s fingers along the bare arm Louis has over Harry’s waist. It’s warm, gentle, not the kind of touch that usually sends him running. 

This is maybe the most relaxed he’s been in a long time. The desire to fill the silence with meaningless words is gone. So is the desire to push people away. Maybe he’s been so blinkered by the fear of being close to someone that he’s missed out on a wealth of moments just like this one, where Harry is touching him gently and there’s nothing impure about it.

Louis sighs, and when Harry mumbles a throaty good morning, he rubs his face into the distended collar of Harry’s shirt and breathes him back in. Even under layers of perspiration and burned food, he still smells equal parts spicy and citrusy. It’s kind of intoxicating.

The fingers on Louis’ wrist start stroking over Louis’ hand, sending a shiver up Louis’ arm and straight to his chest. A purr buzzes within his him. “What time’s it?”

“Like seven.”

Groaning, “Nooo,” he burrows deeper. 

Harry rumbles with laughter and squeezes Louis closer. Louis goes easily, bones still too heavy for him to move on his own. Now he smells only Harry, the combination of washing powder, sweat and cologne that he is turning Louis’ senses to mush.

Nerves and happiness overtake him all at once. He tries not to think too hard about it, yawns and asks, “Sleep okay?” because that’s a lighter topic to think about. 

“Mhmm... ’s been a while since I slept that much, maybe like a year.”

“You’ve had a busy one of those,” he says, but he doesn’t really know because he’s never bothered to ask. The entire year leading up to meeting Harry was probably full of auditions and final exams at uni and Louis doesn’t know anything about it. 

Another bullet point to add to his list of questions he has to ask at some point.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, and turns his hand over so he can nudge it into Louis’ palm. Louis takes it, entwining their fingers and admiring how the natural tan of his flesh glows warmly next to Harry’s skin.

“Glad you could sleep.” Louis hears himself all unsteady and reedy, like he’s choking, but he’s mostly just in awe of how easy it is to sit here quietly with Harry. 

Absently, Louis plays with the fingers he’s got tangled in his own and listens to the steady sound of Harry’s pulse in his ear. It lulls him.

He doesn’t notice he’s drifted off until a set of dry lips jar him, brushed carefully across his forehead. His entire body tenses, from the set of his brow to the curve of his foot, resting lightly against Harry’s ankle. It’s silly and he knows it. It’s only Harry, nothing to be afraid of.

But this is a new stage for them, domestic and cliche and tender. Louis doesn’t know what to do about it.

He lifts his head from Harry’s shoulder and looks at him. A worry line digs between his brows, shyness clouds his eyes and his mouth cracks right down the middle, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing either. 

“That was my move,” Harry whispers vaguely. 

Louis only has to think for a few seconds to understand. He’d raised hell about making his own moves a few days ago and Harry hasn’t pushed Louis once since their conversation at the studio. He’s been waiting for the right moment, just like Louis. And of course Harry would think the right moment is early on a Sunday, both of them half asleep and still dressed in last night’s clothes.

Louis watches Harry’s face shift under the strip of sunlight that wraps like a band around Harry’s forehead—eyelids pulling back, nose twitching, lips curving slightly upward as his confidence grows. 

An earnest smile creeps across Louis’ face. He removes his hand from Harry’s grip and trails the backs of his fingers up and down the side of his face, feeling the skin there for the first time. It’s a little bumpy, acne scars and pimples riddling the hairline, but it’s so soft beneath the coarse pads of Louis’ fingers.

He taps his pointer on the jut of Harry’s jaw, then flits his eyes back to Harry’s green ones, which are a lot lighter than usual. Must be a morning thing, another fact for Louis’ file. “When are you going to make your next move?”

Harry lifts an eyebrow. “Thought it was your turn now?”

Louis shakes his head and lies back, pillowing himself on Harry’s shoulder. His grin is cheeky, all teeth and gums, and his stomach is bubbling with joy. “I went twice in a row,” he teases. “Only fair you do it too.”

He’s only joking, but before Louis can get comfortable and keep playing this game, Harry’s mouth is on his.

Their lips brush softly this time, no rogue tongues or sharp teeth like last Sunday. Just little kisses that loosen the invisible hand gripping Louis’ insides. Louis lets his hand fall to Harry’s throat, thumb stroking along the sleep-damp skin. Harry drops his palm onto the dip of Louis’ waist, right above his jumper, and its weight keeps Louis grounded. 

Louis gets used to what it feels like to be held by Harry, kissed by him. The melody of his low hum every time he pulls away. There’s harmony in their smiles touching and their hands stroking. It’s nothing like the slew of kisses from boys he sometimes takes home from the club, the ones that are just a means to an end, another stone in the pavement they have to cross before they’re in bed shagging. 

This one is innocent.

Until Harry’s hand sneaks under the hem of Louis’ jumper and starts kneading the muscles of Louis’ side. But even though Louis’ lips fall open on a gasp, he welcomes the change in pace. He welcomes Harry licking into his mouth, morning breath and all. The lingering taste of peanuts should be disgusting, but Harry is enthusiastic, the exhalations from his nose tickling Louis’ upper lip.

Louis doesn’t want to stop him. Not when the kiss doesn’t get dirty like the ones he’s used to. 

He only pulls back when he’s dizzy, sliding his hands down to Harry’s chest and using him for leverage. Harry huffs under the pressure, and Louis can barely see straight as he pats him down in apology. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

Harry laughs, though, blows out, “It’s all right,” as he rubs a soothing hand on his chest. 

He’s all small, red lips in a pretty smile and Louis has to close his eyes against the tide of conflicting emotions that crash into his ribs. He wants to feel Harry’s mouth everywhere but now is not the time for that. **  
**

He tucks himself back into Harry’s shoulder, burying his face and catching his breath.

Louis is still reeling when, a few minutes later, Harry has the bottle to curl up by Louis’ ear and whisper, “I like kissing you.” 

There is no wind to speak of left in Louis’ body. No way he will be able to withstand Harry’s charm for long.

Louis doesn’t know how he does it, but he manages to gather enough strength to budge up with his elbows, tuck some fingers under Harry’s chin and draw his lips right back in. Eyes open, he stares up at the fifty or so lashes fanned across the arches of Harry’s cheekbones, watching as puffs of air ruffle them up. The longer he stares, the easier it is to tell Harry’s blushing, redness tiptoeing up to his hairline, nose warming against Louis’ with every ticking second. 

Of course Louis isn’t the only one affected here; he should have known that already. He relaxes again, melts into Harry and focuses on the kisses they trade.

They’re not perfect. Harry likes to push his tongue into Louis’ mouth way more than Louis really likes. And Louis accidentally crushes Harry’s sternum with the juts of his elbows every time he tries to change their angle.

But Louis really likes everything else. He likes how Harry anticipates when Louis needs to breathe and when they need to slow down so things won’t get too heady. He likes how Harry sucks gently on Louis’ bottom lip at the same time as he massages the dip of his ribcage. He likes how Harry rubs both his palms up and down Louis’ spine, fingers catching on the notches and digging in when Louis does something _he_ likes. How when Harry forces him on top, he wraps both his hands all the way around Louis’ waist and tugs him like he barely weighs a thing. 

He likes every gasp Harry makes when Louis glides his fingers into his scalp and tugs, likes the way their tastes have mixed together and how he can’t tell who smells like what faded cologne. And even though it infuriates him and makes him want to move to the bedroom right that instant, he likes how Harry’s fingertips never go below the small of his back, flinching away when they graze the waistband of his jeans. 

Everything with Aiden had been rushed—one minute they were snogging in Aiden’s kitchen, bodies wrapped together by the sink, and the next Louis was lying across a counter, Aiden’s mouth sucking his dick. Aloofness had been great then, Louis not at all ready for commitment, but he thinks he might want that now. He doesn’t know that for a _fact_ , but he wants to work at it, take the time to actually know each other.

So when he pulls back from the kiss for good, he doesn’t feel like he’s been robbed of a shag or anything. His entire body has been reduced to the swollen pair of lips on his face, and that’s enough for him. He just wants to go back to sleep, dream about Harry’s hands on him.

Harry blinks dazedly up at him, his own mouth puffy and red and his chin shiny with spit. “Wha’s wrong?” His voice is deeper, a little scratchy from all the guttural noises he made while Louis played with his hair and headscarf. Louis _did that_ to him. 

He shudders. It takes all his strength not to dive right back into Harry’s mouth. “I should get going, get some proper sleep.”

“Noooo,” Harry whines, and he yanks Louis into his chest by the wrist. Louis’ mouth ends up pressed against the point of Harry’s jaw and he can’t fight the smile that spreads his lips. There are worse places he could be.“You can sleep in my bed.”

“And let you sleep on the couch?” Louis tuts. “Chivalrous, but I’m not gonna let you do that.”

“Then we can both sleep in my bed.”

Considering how warm Louis had just felt, happiness thrumming in his veins, it’s a shock how still he goes at Harry’s words. His blood, his heart, his lungs, the set of fingers he was unconsciously stroking along Harry’s arm—everything freezes. Logically, he knows Harry means sleep in the most natural way, just their bodies on his mattress with blankets and pillows and everything in their rightful places. Maybe more cuddling.

But the thought of getting in bed with him, drifting into unconsciousness with him again, without even firmly discussing what they are, whatever it is, to each other yet—that scares him. It’s too intimate. Accidentally spending one night and snogging the next morning is a big enough step for one day. 

“I appreciate the offer,” he says, swallowing hard against the spit that accumulated behind his teeth when he wasn’t doing much breathing. “I should go home, though.”

“Louiiis.”

“The cat needs me.” 

“You don’t have a cat.”

Louis shrugs and sits up just in time to catch Harry’s mouth morphing into a pout. “Promise I’ll come by the studio tomorrow, yeah?”

“You better not break that promise, then.” 

This boy is ridiculous.

Louis smiles. “I won’t.”

When he leaves ten minutes later, beanie shoved haphazardly over finger-messy hair and scarf wrapped loosely over a neck slick from Harry’s lips, Louis thinks he’s done a pretty good job of making Harry believe him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I promise I've been hard at work on this fic. It's turned into a monster and my friends can attest to that. 
> 
> The thing is, I've run into a snag of late and I don't think I'll be able to finish the story in the next month, as I had planned. So I decided to go ahead and update for those of you following -- not sure there are many, but I still owe every single one of you for sticking around! I'm grateful to anyone who gives this story the light of day. Would love to hear your thoughts any time, either in the comments or on tumblr ([insideasinkingboat](insideasinkingboat.tumblr.com))! I encourage you to do so, please! 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


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